Missing
by FusseKat
Summary: Now Complete - didn't take too long! A Ross-centric story. NYPD is short staffed as a Major Task Force has been readied to assist Homeland Security against a 'credible threat' forcing Captain Danny Ross to take a patrol shift and the trouble begins
1. Chapter 1

A Ross-centric story. NYPD is short staffed as a Major Task Force has been readied to assist Homeland Security against a 'credible threat' forcing Captain Danny Ross to take a patrol shift to relieve his already overloaded detective team of Goren and Eames.

The rights to all recognizable characters belong to Dick Wolf, NBCUni, and possibly others, but not me. All other characters exit only in this work of fan fiction to advance the plot.

* * *

Missing

Danny Ross wearily looked over his paper-covered desk, wishing for a better answer than what tumbled from his mouth. "Goren, I promise you. We'll make it work, and I'll make it up to you. I just can't cut you and Eames loose right now."

If he hadn't been an experienced Goren watcher, Ross would have missed it; the imperceptible shift of weight, the hand that flinched but didn't quite ball up into a fist. The protesting voice was deceptively calm. "We've gone nearly three weeks without a day off, Captain. That doesn't even count the extra hours. We need a break."

Ross struggled to keep the impatience out of his voice. The situation wasn't any better in his office than it was in the bullpen. Even though Goren was in the right, Ross didn't appreciate him pressing the point. "I'm well aware of that. Unfortunately, we're not discussing whether you deserve the time. We're discussing whether I can give it, and I can't." The brown eyes across the desk from him closed briefly. From any other officer pushed this far, he would have read it as simple fatigue, but from Goren, it was more likely an effort to control his temper.

Ross's gut twisted. He didn't have any other options, but he couldn't ignore his detective's pallor, the dark smudges under tired eyes, or the slightest slump in the normally erect carriage. "Look, Goren, you and Eames did a hell of a job closing those murders. No one could have gotten a more professional resolution, and we both know how much pressure was coming down – from the media, politically…" He stopped and sighed. He was preaching to the choir. He rose and came out from behind the desk, dropping into one of the empty chairs, gesturing to Goren to do the same. "You both deserve better, but I only have two teams tonight, and you're one of them. Every department has had to contribute to the task force. We're cut to the bone."

Goren snorted wearily. "Homeland security. Right. Does someone really think the regular criminals take a holiday because Al-Qaida might show up on the coast somewhere? Sometime? Maybe on Tuesday under the full moon?"

Ross was sick of parroting the party line, but he did it anyway. "It was deemed a credible threat. My opinion wasn't exactly requested, as I'm sure you can imagine. If it's any consolation, the governor probably wasn't asked, either."

"Right… I feel so much better."

"Enough Detective." Ross made the effort to muster an administrative air. "The sarcasm is wasted on me. You know better. The port security alone would break any organization, and they have a hell of a lot more to watch than just the port. If they need our personnel, we have an obligation to be there."

Goren's only answer this time was to stare into the gathering gloom, dusk came early in January. When he finally spoke, there was no missing the edge of rebellion in his voice. "Eames' took off about half an hour ago, and I'm not calling her back in. I don't care if the shift starts at six or not. I'll work a couple hours solo. She needs some rest." He stared at Ross defiantly.

Ross was on the verge of barking out a reprimand, and held it back. He vowed not to let his irritation turn him into a total jerk. His people, Goren and Eames included, deserved better. "Is this about Eames? Or is she just your excuse?"

Goren's eyes flared, but his voice stayed level. "Isn't that the drill, sir? You don't want the details? 'Work it out', isn't that what you keep telling us?" Goren looked away, and continued. "You should keep that in mind, Captain." The last comment had a touch of extra venom.

_Ah, so we've both taken our cheap shot, Goren._ Ross forced a rueful smile, hoping to remove a bit of the tension on both sides. "You're right. I have a better idea. I'll cover until nine or ten. Make it ten. Go home and get a couple hours rest yourself. On your way back, pick up some food for the three of us and I'll brief you while we eat. I'm sorry, Goren, it's the best I can do."

The sudden change of direction in the conversation seemed to take Goren back. He pulled at an imaginary thread on the seam of his pant leg. "I know you're doing what you can, Captain. I was out of line," Goren said quietly.

"No, you weren't," Ross retorted. "A tired cop can be a dead cop. I won't fault you for watching out for your partner." _And yourself, not that you'd admit that, either_. "Get out of here. And bring something decent back for dinner! None of that crap from Wonder Burger."

Ross watched from his doorway until Goren disappeared through the main doors of Major Case and had time to make the elevator. Satisfied that those particular set of sensitive ears were out of range, he stormed back to his desk, muttering a few choice expletives on his way. He pulled the duty rosters out of his desk drawer, tempted to relieve his frustration by tearing them to bits.

Ross shook his head, recognizing the futility of feeding his own temper. There had to be some slack in the assignments somewhere. Eames and Goren were in no shape to chase all over town tonight, and then follow it up with double shifts and triple workloads. A few hours of sleep just weren't going to cut it.

His cryptic scribbles covered the roster sheets, changed over and over trying to make the impossible at least probable. Apparently, it was time to add a few more revisions.

* * *

It was a beautiful city. Even in the rain of winter, it was a beautiful city.

Armand Fischer sipped his cappuccino, watching the elite and powerful of the city as they left their offices, hustling to their homes, dinners or charity events. Comfortable, complacent, well-educated people. He had grown up in their world and come to despise it and them. He hated their immorality, their selfishness, their wealth, and their absorption with the latest electronic gadget or tonight's party. There should be punishment for their blindness and superficiality, and he was just the man to rain down punishment on them. Clearly now, not everyone understood his vision or his methods, but that would change. The moment was drawing near, just a few more days.

As dusk approached, the rain began. His day at the office was complete. His business, importing German goods and exporting certain American specialties, was thriving. He was a well-respected man within the business community, known as a supporter of the arts, a contributor to local charities. He was welcomed into that rarified world as an insider.

He always allowed himself these few moments at the end of the day to contemplate his life, his goals, over a quiet coffee, sometimes a pastry. Then he would walk to his apartment, hang his suit neatly in the closet, perhaps make himself a sandwich, and gracefully slide into his other role, the one that held purpose and promise and passion.

As he raised his umbrella, he smiled at the irony. He had waited for so long. The fools would never know.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"You sure you want this heap, sir? We have plenty of nicer vehicles, Captain."

Ross scrawled his signature across the motor pool form. "It'll do just fine."

Officer Simmons handed over the keys with a shrug. _Who could figure out captains anyway? _"It's all gassed up. Shotgun and Kevlar in the trunk, standard radio gear, emergency supplies. There was a note about the wipers not working too well, and I'm not sure anyone had a chance to look at them yet."

"Everyone's short-handed, son. Hold down the fort." Ross ambled toward his vehicle of choice, an early nineties Camry, probably rescued from the impound lot years ago. He checked his service revolver and backup piece, trying to remember the last time he'd been on street patrol in plain clothes. The three-piece suit hung neatly in his office, replaced by jeans and a heavy sweater from his locker. The formal top coat looked a bit silly, but necessary. It was going to be a rainy, cold night, and if Goren and Eames got a little bit of rest, it would be worth it.

His stomach fluttered. _Oh yeah, nerves._ _Who would have thought? After all these years, from the beat to detective to captain, the nerves were still there. Would it be routine? Would the next traffic stop be a drunk or a shoot-out?_ Time to find out.

He settled into the vehicle, adjusted the mirror, and studied his own reflection. He looked like shit. His own days had been long, right along with his detectives. This little burst of adrenaline would wear off. He could stop off at Starbucks and go for a double espresso or something. He pulled into traffic and started his solo patrol on the street, feeling confident and relaxed despite himself. What could happen in a couple of hours, anyway?

* * *

Ross signed off with dispatch. Three plus hours felt like three damn days. What a reality check. Next administrative meeting with the Chief of D's, he'd be raising hell. Every one of his fellow commanders should have to live this firsthand. It was so easy to forget, or block out those long ago patrol shifts.

It was one thing to see the shortage on paper, from his backside, comfortably ensconced behind a desk. His night was busy enough, but curiosity had moved him to monitor the radio traffic. Patrols were racing from one crisis to the next. Procedures were a fleeting memory. Crime scenes inadequately secured. The vast majority of detectives either on the task force or diverted to street patrol, Goren and Eames merely one case on point. Without timely investigative follow-up, evidence collection was a joke. The pitifully few arrests they might make would yield fewer convictions. The cases would be full of holes.

Calls were stacked up and response time wasn't worth shit. Most of the patrols were running solo. No one was free for backup. Only guardian angels and sheer dumb luck were keeping them safe. Both the cops and the city.

To top it off, the motor pool had been right. The damn wipers didn't work! He'd spent the night peering through blurry sheets of water. How many other vehicles were out there without proper maintenance, putting the officers and the public in danger? His head ached from eyestrain and frustration. He was going in, but damn if he wasn't coming back out. His butt could be out here on the line, just like everyone else.

His last call had been a breaking and entering called in by an elderly woman. The job was just too smooth, too practiced to be kids on a romp. A five-minute conversation with Mrs. Longmont had him fuming. Neighbors up and down the adjacent streets had been hit over the last few weeks. This was a gang on a roll, no doubt hitting homes they thought vulnerable. The department should have been all over these guys.

Ross gritted his teeth. The operative word was "should". He "should" have been able to get a forensics team. He "should" have gotten extra patrol in the area immediately. The department "should" have noted a pattern weeks ago and acted accordingly. No one had the time. Instead, the public got a desk jockey taking an extra look while heading back to the barn.

He crisscrossed the darkened neighborhood slowly. It was a long shot, but it wasn't unusual for operations like this to hit more than one house on a given night. The conditions definitely weren't in his favor. Mrs. Longmont was a relic leftover from an earlier time, still living in the home she'd shared with her husband for fifty some years. Gentrification hadn't made it this far. Homes, many of them rentals, were ill kept and poorly lit. A fair share of the streetlights had been broken while the remainder was burnt out. The rain had picked up, blurring his vision, behind the barely working wipers.

Then, there it was, a movement in a side yard. He continued down the block, turned the corner and cut the lights. It was a long shot, but he was too damn angry and frustrated not to try. It was also lousy recon, but so what? He'd never get backup here in time to do it right.

The alley would be his best bet. Flipping up the collar of his coat, Ross ducked into the driving rain and blended into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Eames held one of three white takeout bags to her nose and breathed deeply. "Oh, man, there must be two hundred calories just in the smell. How can you stand it?"

"What happened to 'I'm too tired to move'? You sound positively perky."

"Perky? Give me a break. Pastrami on rye happened. What else is in here?" Eames asked, rustling among the bags.

"Put that stuff down. That pastrami's for me you know. Make yourself useful and call the captain."

"Mr. Impatient doesn't want to keep our commanding officer waiting?" Eames asked with a grin.

"It has nothing to do with impatience. It has to do with guilt. Ross hasn't exactly been on vacation since we started this nightmare. If he goes down, gets sick or something, the rest of us are screwed."

"Good point." Eames checked with dispatch and relayed the information to her partner, not that Goren really needed her to repeat it. "He left his last call thirty minutes ago and was on his way in. He should be there before we are."

"That's because we're running late," Goren noted.

"Not my fault, man. It was either smelly socks or stop at Wal-Mart. You voted for stopping."

"I'll plead self-defense," Goren said wryly.

"I'll see what I can do about getting laundry done, in my spare time or next day off, whichever comes first." Eames said seriously.

"I didn't mean it was your problem, Chief. We'll work something out." Eames avoided his eyes, staring out into the night. _Good job, Goren. Have her fretting over laundry. Pile it on, why not?_

The remainder of the ride into Manhattan passed in silence.

* * *

Armand Fischer glared at his subordinate. The young man was nearly quaking in his shoes, a total idiot, but the only man he could spare. "You understand? We can't afford any mistakes."

The young man shrank back, before asking in his tortured English. "Please - why we don't kill him?'

"No! You do NOT think, you DO NOT question me." Fischer nearly shouted, reining himself in at the last moment. Even idiots had their uses, and this child enjoyed thinking he was part of the inner circle. He tried to be patient as he explained. "Joseph, if his body is not discovered, there will be doubt, there will be hope." He spoke slowly, insisting as always their conversations be in English. Not that it did any good with Joseph. "When an American policeman is killed the pursuit is rabid. We do not want that. An abandoned car will bring questions, many questions, but not the pursuit a verified death would bring. There will be no manhunt." He sighed inwardly. Joseph's blank expression revealed how little he actually comprehended. Best to go for simplicity, and make sure Joseph knew what to do, even if why eluded him. "Now, repeat your instructions back to me."

The young man fished out a cigarette and lit it, aiming for an air of confidence. He failed miserably as his shaking hands fumbled with the lighter. "Take the car. Do not hurry; break no traffic - signs." Fischer winced at the mangled English, but let him continue. "Wear fingers."

"Gloves, Joseph. They are gloves," Fischer corrected. He struggled to keep his face neutral. Joseph was hopeless, but at least he knew to cover his hands with something. "Where are you to go?" Fischer asked. "To the ocean – a – park."

"What park?" Fischer demanded, again ready to lose his temper. To his dismay, it took Joseph several moments to remember.

"Overtop, overhang – no, overlook. Overlook Park." Joseph smiled, apparently feeling very satisfied with himself. His pronunciation was awful. Fischer wanted to strangle him. "Continue," he said firmly.

"Leave the car in the parking area. Walk to the 'quick store' and wait to be picked up."

Fisher sighed. They had worked on that repeatedly, and Joseph STILL thought convenience stores were quick stores. Hopeless. "The coat," Fischer said impatiently. "You have forgotten the coat."

"Yes, yes. Leave the coat near the edge of the water."

"Joseph! Pay attention! It must appear that he dropped it. Make sure it does not go into the water. Climb over the railing and arrange it, if necessary." The older man's gaze turned back to the bloodied man lying on the floor, then to the identification in his hand. An ordinary police officer was a dreaded complication. A police captain, a commander, was unimaginable. Their luck could not have been worse, tonight of all nights. This man had come at the wrong time, with too many questions. Even outnumbered, he had nearly overwhelmed them.

What was such a man doing, springing out of the rainy night? Fischer had selected this lonely neglected neighborhood, this particular house as a base of operations because it was of no consequence to anyone.

What could it mean that the police officer had shown up tonight? Had someone discovered his plans? Had one of his few 'partners' betrayed him? He hadn't seen any signs of this, had no sense of trouble. Was this man acting alone, or was his presence some cosmic accident?

So many things to worry about. Fischer gestured to his errand boy. "You must remember every detail. You must be precise."

"I will not fail," Joseph said.

"See that you don't," Fischer answered grimly, and waved the man away. It had taken time to find this police captain's vehicle, the authorities would be looking for him soon. If only he had someone else he could spare, but he didn't have time to pull someone else in, someone stronger than Joseph. Tonight's shipment was his true priority. His organization was short on people and heavy on work tonight.

_Calm, be calm,_ he urged himself as Joseph nearly ran out the door. No one saw the struggle on this rainy, gloomy night. There had been little noise. What could happen if Joseph failed utterly, and was caught? This was not Iraq or Saudi Arabia. The police would not torture a student with atrocious English for a traffic violation, and the young fool would not break, immediately. No real harm would be done. He had time. One merely had to be clever.

Fischer turned to the others gathered in the room, waiting anxiously for his decisions. At a minimum, they needed to secure their unfortunate visitor. He pointed to one of the men, his most reliable operative. "You will stay with me and see to this one. The rest of you, reload the vehicles and leave immediately. Our delivery south will go as planned, with three cars instead of four. Follow the plan exactly and you will have no problems. I expect you back in the morning."

He gestured to the unconscious man, bound and blindfolded. "This one is to be guarded constantly, but from a distance. Do not speak within his hearing. We will do nothing with him until I return." He started for the door.

"And if there are problems?"

Armand considered the question. Ibrahim was French, the son of immigrant parents from North Africa, at least that's what was on his official passport,. The two had worked together for years, unlike the others who came and went like butterflies on the breeze. His judgment and dedication could be trusted.

"Kill him."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"There's no sign of him, Detective. He's not answering any radio communications. There's been no report of an incident. I just don't know what to say." Sergeant Steve Powell's brow furrowed. "I don't lose people, not on my watch. Not in thirty years, and I'm not about to start now."

Eames set the phone down. "Jeremy's at home. He hasn't seen his dad, and Ross didn't call or leave a message. I'm afraid I freaked him out a little. He's going to have his mom call when she gets home. Where could he be?"

"Steve, play the tape of his last call for me again." The others waited as Goren listened intently. The normal chaos of central dispatch swirled around them, but Goren seemed oblivious. After two more tries, he shook his head. "Ross's last communication sounds perfectly normal. What was his patrol grid?"

Powell spread the detailed map of Manhattan's streets in front of them. He was old-fashioned and preferred the heavy coated paper to a computer screen. "Here was his last call, a Mrs. Etta Longmont. His last call… " He paused to look at the clock. "that was almost two hours ago. He could have covered a lot of ground in two hours."

Goren's voice was sharp. "Put out an APB on the Camry. Get every available unit down in that area, on foot if possible."

"Detective, I can't," Powell protested. "It's nuts around here. There is no such thing as an available unit. Besides, I don't have the authority."

Goren clenched his fists in frustration. "Who can we call?"

"Search me. We're way out of chain of command. Is it Moran maybe or Precinct Captain he might have disappeared from or the Deputy Chief, or the Commissioner? "

"Do it, but put out the APB first," Goren said tersely. "I'll take responsibility. Call them all, get them down here. Eames and I will go to the Longmont address and work from there."

"I'll pull out all the stops, Goren. It may take us awhile to get things moving. Forget about normal patrol and just figure out what happened. I'll cover your area somehow." He gripped Goren on the shoulder. "Get out there, something's not right here."

"You got it."

* * *

The flashing lights froze Joseph's hands on the wheel. He willed himself not to yield to panic or race away from the area. The pickup truck flashed by on the cross-street, but seemed to take no notice him.

The car in front of him made a right turn, heading in the same direction as the truck. Did the police know? He was in the police officer's car. Were they searching for him, even now? Perhaps he should go back, get further instructions?

No, he couldn't go back. Armand would not be happy if he returned before he finished his assignment. He was more afraid of him than the police. There was no pleasing the man.

After a deep breath, he made his own left turn, heading away from the area. He would do as he was told, and do it perfectly. He could avoid the freeway and major roads. It really wasn't that far. Wiser heads than his were planning, watching. He was a true believer, after all, not afraid to sacrifice everything for paradise. He would show them how completely he could be trusted.

"Mrs. Longmont, are you sure you can't think of anything else? Did he give you any indication of where he was going?"

Mrs. Longmont took a small sip of tea from a teacup as fragile as she. "Please, it's Etty. He was awfully upset, as I said. Very disappointed that no one would be able to come to collect fingerprints and such. Honestly, I think he was ready to go hunt someone down all by himself. I gave him all the names and addresses I knew of the others whose homes have been broken into recently." She set her cup down. "At one time, I could tell you about the family in every house. This was such a lovely neighborhood. Now people come and go. They're just people, not families who care about the community. They're strangers to me." She sighed. "Times change."

Eames looked at the list she'd given her, written in a delicate, precise hand. No doubt, Ross had a duplicate in his pocket. She couldn't think of anything else to ask. Goren was prowling around the rest of the house, hoping to find a clue, anything to give them a next step. Eames was afraid they were going to come up empty. Apparently, she didn't hide her worry very well. Either that, or Etty Longmont used a lifetime of wisdom to read her. "Young lady, I'm sure your captain is all right. He was a very impressive man, you know."

"Yes, ma'am. He is that," Eames said, warmed by her sincerity. Goren looked around doorway, giving her the high sign. He must have finished his search and it was time to leave. "Are you sure I can't get someone to stay with you?"

Mrs. Longmont set her cup down with authority. "I've been in this house over fifty years. I'm not letting some young fools chase me out." She shook her finger for emphasis. "They're just cowards, you know. If someone is home, they don't dare come in." She picked up her cane. "Besides, I'll whack them."

Eames offered her arm to help the woman stand. She couldn't help but smile. "Well, maybe 911 would be better than whacking with that." She handed her a card. "That's my cell number. You promise me if you see anything suspicious, you call me right away. I don't care what time it is. Now give me your word."

"Oh, all right. Such a fuss, young woman." She walked them to the door. "Did you find anything, Detective?" she asked Goren.

"Not much, but we have a start. Thank you for your help, ma'am. We'll be in touch, and check on you in the next few days, but you follow my partner's advice." They started down the porch steps. "You turn on your porch lights and leave them on, too."

"Goodnight, detectives," she called after them. The lights came on behind them. The two rushed down the walk, trying to miss the worst of the steady rain. Goren was snickering as he climbed into the car.

"What?" Eames asked, shuddering as water trickled down her neck. It hardly seemed a humorous moment.

"Feisty old gal," Goren said. "She was muttering as we left, _'Porch lights, smorch lights. I'll just whack 'em._' She'll probably do more good than we will."

"Do we have anything?" Eames asked.

"Nothing that will help. I'll lay odds Ross went looking for them, though."

"So we check out the addresses."

Goren shook his head. "I don't think so. Ross is such a by the book cop, he would have followed procedure. If he went somewhere specific, he would have called it in."

Eames nodded in agreement. "Okay, so he headed back to 1PP, taking the scenic route, just nosing around. He could be anywhere, but something serious must have happened to keep him from calling in and notifying dispatch. Now what?"

"We do what he did. Cruise the streets. Hope we spot something. If it comes to it, we work a grid on foot."

Another five minutes and the radio crackled to life. A silent alarm at a convenience store. "Send someone else," Goren snapped in response.

The disembodied voice from the radio crackled with tension. "There is no one else! Repeat, you are the only available unit! We have a multiple car pileup on the interstate."

"On our way," growled Goren. "Shit. If Ross's really in trouble, we're screwed."

Eames hit the gas.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_Damn, that hurt. Actually, what didn't hurt? Where was he?_

_Okay, take inventory. Cuffed, behind the back. Dark. Blindfold, and just plain dark. Maybe a closed room, lights off. Something on the face; dry, itchy._

_Someone else in the room, behind him, breathing._

"Hey! Hey, you!"

Silence. Ross rolled to the side, in an awkward half-sit. His head spun. A _concussion would probably be a good guess_. Yeah, someone took him out from behind. "I know you're there." Footsteps echoed on a bare floor, a door closed. He could hear the murmur of voices, just barely.

The door opened. Two sets of footsteps, one set stopped while the other continued up to him. He felt a dress shoe press firmly on his chest and push him to the floor. With no way to brace himself, his head bounced, sending flashes of pain through his skull. _Definitely a concussion._

Rough hands flipped him face down, someone fiddled with the cuffs. They were snapped down over his wrists again, too tight, but at least in front. At least two men, one on each side, hauled him to his feet and pushed him along. He tried to count steps, gauge direction. Instead, he stumbled, and they dragged him along.

He protested. Still no direct answer.

He was shoved to the floor, and a door slammed behind him. Awkwardly, he pushed the blindfold away from his eyes. It was stiff with blood. He was in a tiny, grubby bathroom, on his knees. Shakily, he pulled himself up, using the sink to balance.

The reflection in the mirror looked pretty grim. One eye was nearly swollen shut, with a trail of blood streaking down his cheek from brow to chin. He was sure there was a lump and more blood on the back. He reached behind and probed gently with stiff fingers. It was pretty bad. What had they hit him with?

He turned the water on. The rust-stained trickle convinced him to leave it running. He stumbled to the toilet. The inventor of zippers hadn't planned for handcuffs. Relieving himself was awkward, and the stream tinged with blood. Not good news.

He finished and turned back to the sink. The water ran clear and it was warm. He cupped water to his mouth, then splashed his face, gently massaging at the dried blood and dirt. They must have dragged him through the yard after he went down. His sweater and jeans were smeared with mud. His vision cleared enough to read the note taped to the mirror:

TRY TO ESCAPE AND YOU DIE!  
BE SILENT  
COVER YOUR EYES BEFORE YOU KNOCK ON DOOR!

He straightened up, barely able to stand. He wasn't strong enough for an escape attempt, not yet. The sky beyond the tiny bathroom window was lightening. It had to be early morning. The only good news was that someone Would be looking for him, by now.

Reluctantly, he picked up the soiled bandana and placed it back over his eyes. He would play the game by their rules – for now.

* * *

Joseph wound his way carefully into the park. He sat quietly in the car after turning off the engine. With the wipers stopped, rain slid off the windshield. _What a cursed country. _And now, he was supposed to tromp about in this deluge – drop the coat, and walk down to his pickup point.

He shivered involuntarily. He hated to think of it – puddles filling his shoes, water dripping down his neck. Perhaps he could wait until the rain stopped, or forget the coat. Surely, that coat couldn't be as important as the Armand imagined. The idea was so tempting. What difference could it possibly make?

The wail of a siren interrupted his thoughts, faint but getting closer. Joseph vaulted from the car, dragging the coat with him. He was running as the car door slammed on the fabric, jerking him off his feet. He scrambled back on hands and knees, freed the coat and ran blindly towards the railings that separated the parking area from the ocean.

The sirens were closer. He hurled the coat into the darkness. Instead of going over, it flopped over the railing. Joseph yanked hard. The coat whipped free, and a chorus of items jangled to the pavement. Would nothing go right! He gathered the material into a ball and tried again. The sirens still rang in his ears. They must be coming for him.

Down on his hands and knees, Joseph scrabbled along the asphalt, desperate to get away. It was too dark to see. He stuffed whatever he could find into his pockets – some coins, a case of some kind - and fled. By the time he realized the sirens had passed him by, he didn't have the courage to go back and check his work.

* * *

The SUV jolted over the speed bump, and Eames squealed to a stop. Logan was waiting for them in the parking lot. Ritchie's car was there, but no sign of him. Wheeler was still en-route.

Eames bolted from the driver's side. "Logan, what's going on?"

"Nothing. It's still just us."

Goren swore softly. "We have a cop, a captain no less, missing for nearly twelve hours. And it's just the three of us?"

Eames stepped up, thankful the message to meet was for the diner and not 1PP. Right now, Goren would be storming through the halls, looking for the first superior he could lay hands on. They couldn't afford to lose anyone right now, least of all, Goren. "So we go with what we've got, Bobby. It's nearly daylight. They have the same skeleton crew on at Major Case that we had last night. The rest of us will go back, on foot, and start canvassing."

"What about Jeremy or Nancy? Anyone heard from either of them yet?" Eames asked.

"Not good," said a voice behind them. Sergeant Powell was carrying a tray of coffee cups. Ritchie had a stack of food containers. "Here. Eat. I went by about an hour ago. Unless we chain him to a pole, he's going to be down here, looking for his dad. I can hardly blame him, and we really can't stop him. He promised to wait, but I wouldn't count on it for very long."

"Shit," Goren said between bites. "Ross will kill us if anything happens to Jeremy. What's going on with the brass, Joel? This is nuts."

"Don't start. Let's just say we don't all have the same priorities. I'm calling everyone I can think of, trying to generate some pressure." While the ragged group gulped down a meager breakfast, Powell went through the litany of early morning phone calls, political wrangling and a host of other frustrations.

"So what you're telling us is we'll be on our own for a while," Goren said, wadding his napkin into a ball and cramming it into his coffee cup. "I don't believe this."

"Officially, all of you are off duty. I told dispatch to forget your names. " Powell's cell interrupted him. "Powell."

"Where?"

"Damn. No sign of him?"

"Right. Good, but tell them to stay away from it until we get there. No one touches it until I say so. We're on our way."

Goren was already moving. Eames looked at him with alarm.

"They found the car in Overlook Park. I'm going with Goren and Eames. Keep in touch. Use my cell for now."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The SUV took the corner into the park entrance fast, just short of squealing the tires. "Damn. Look at all these vultures. Isn't that Kendrick, the mayor's aide?" Powell asked.

"One and the same," Eames said. The fates were against them today. Having Kendrick here was a serious stroke of bad luck. The guy seemed to hate Goren, and the feeling was mutual. "Don't throw him off the cliff, Goren. Let Steve deal with him."

Eames pulled the SUV into a spot away from the cluster of personnel and vehicles. "If I find out he's the one who kept us from getting more resources last night, all you'll hear is the splash." He stormed out of the truck. Besides themselves, there were two patrol vehicles, and a forensics van and at least ten other people were near to the Camry.

"We waited, detective, but you might want to take a look over here." The three were motioned over to the railing by one of the forensics technicians, a young woman named Culver. Goren's reputation being what it was; they didn't seem to have done much.

"Oh, God," breathed Eames. "No."

Goren said nothing, staring. Powell joined them in equally horrified silence. A corner of black, sodden fabric fluttered in the wind on an outcropping of rock just below them. A few more inches and it was a long, unimpeded drop into the surf below. Even without the nameplate, any close associate would recognize the overcoat as belonging to Danny Ross.

"We took photos, and I've checked the railing. Plenty of prints, but they're a mess. That was all. We didn't want to touch anything until you'd had a look, detective."

Powell stepped between and whispered to Goren, "Tell me what you need."

" Eames said hesitantly. "Have Culver start with the outside of the car, samples from the tread, everything. Cross all the T's, dot all the I's. I want to be the one to open the vehicle."

Goren glared over his shoulder and added, "And find Kendrick something to do somewhere else. The man's a menace."

"You got it." Powell turned to the assembled group. "This is the responsibility of Major Case," he said loudly. "Forensics! Start with the vehicle, but don't open it yet." He gestured to the nearest patrol unit. "Go down to the entrance. Set up a roadblock. If anyone from the press comes near, arrest them for impeding an investigation. Kendrick, could I speak with you privately, please? We're going to need to coordinate the cooperation from other agencies."

Goren moved ten or fifteen feet away from the immediate area, eased over the relatively high railing and moved gingerly toward the coat. Eames held her breath as Goren slipped twice and caught himself. After a few more careful steps, he knelt, barely able to hold his position down on his knees.

"Damn, Bobby, be careful."

"They're going to need a safety line before anyone else comes over that." Goren studied the rock surface closely, fingertips gently gliding over the rocks. Carefully he crept forward. The rock face dropped sharply away, the smooth gray surface treacherously slick. After less than a minute, he began to inch backwards. "I'm coming back over. Give me a hand." He reached up and Eames clasped his wrist firmly, providing some additional stability. Goren eased himself up and over.

"What do you think?" Eames asked anxiously.

"Anyone just walking on that rock, in the dark would have been on his butt ten feet long before they reached that coat." Goren gestured toward the rocky surface. "You probably can't see it, but there's a thin layer of moss all over."

"Makes sense. It's got to be damp almost all of the time."

"Well, it's as slick as ice, and the reflection of the sunlight is different where my steps were. There aren't any other marks."

"What are you saying, Bobby?"

"Ross didn't walk out there and drop that coat. It was thrown."

"It was pouring down rain last night. Why does he pitch his coat? More to the point, why is Ross up here in the first place."

"Exactly. Let's look at the car." Goren paused, and then added. "Uh, oh. We've got trouble. I knew it."

An intense conversation between Steve Powell and the mayor's assistant was escalating. The words were carried away from them, so they didn't know the content, but they could guess. Goren immediately headed in that direction.

"Stay out of it, Bobby," Eames said quickly, trying to catch her partner. "Anything you have to add will only make things worse."

She barely caught a muttered, "That son of bitch," before Goren flung himself forward.

Instinctively, Eames moved to intercept Goren. It was futile. Powell already had Carleton Kendrick bent over the back of the nearest vehicle, shaking him furiously, shouting for good measure.

"You don't know a damn thing! Danny Ross would never – NEVER take his own life!" Eames stepped between the two men and her partner, desperately trying to keep Goren out of the fray, while others managed to disentangle Powell.

Kendrick stumbled to his feet. "You can't attack a member of the mayor's staff. I'll have you up on charges, Powell. "

Powell shouted right back. "Take a shot. Go ahead. Just stay out of the police work, and keep your fantasies out of it. This is a good man you're speculating about."

"Just because he's one of the brothers in blue doesn't change the realities," Kendrick shot back. "It's obvious that suicide should at least be considered."

"You can make that judgment from just a glance? Without evidence?" Goren demanded, advancing ominously. This time Eames let him go, equally appalled at what was being said. "How convenient. The rest of us can just go home."

"Not even Goren the great is going to clean this mess up," Kendrick scoffed, "Especially without Eames covering your ass every minute." Goren invaded Kendrick's personal space, his hands clenched at his side. The mayor's aide stepped away, clearly intimidated, finally showing an ounce of self-preservation instinct.

He stepped back and fussed with his suit, trying to regain control of the situation. "Thank God we were circumspect last night. This will be scandal enough. It's a PR disaster." The words were out of his mouth before he realized his miscalculation. Every member of the New York Police Department present turned as one.

"PR? You're worried about PR? Get out of here," Powell hissed. "As of right now, if you breathe one more word, I won't be responsible for the consequences and I won't do anything to stop anyone." Kendrick took a few hesitant steps and then fled.

"A suicide?" Eames said, aghast. "He thinks this is a suicide?"

"He's an idiot," Powell said sharply. "It doesn't end there. He's opposed to committing additional resources to assist in looking for Ross, since the incident is so 'obvious'," Powell said. "How dare that man? Right now the only thing that's 'obvious' is that we ought to lock HIM up somewhere."

"Can't we do that, sir?" one of the rookie patrolmen asked eagerly, nudging his partner. "Jaywalking? Littering? We'll go."

The earnest suggestion broke the grim mood. Powell shook his head, smiling sadly. "Tempting, son, but no. We'll just have to argue our point to a higher ranking official. Besides, as irritating as that nitwit is, there are more important things to do. Everyone keep that in mind."

"You're going to have to do the political end, Powell. We'll handle things here," Goren said.

"I have to agree. I can't help with the forensics," Powell said. His round face was solemn, marred with a deep frown. "I shouldn't have lost my temper. It was stupid."

"Better you than Goren," Eames said, flashing a wry grin at his partner.

"Maybe," Powell said. "Get to work. I'll start making more calls. Get the other Captains involved and catch Moran the minute he steps off the plane. No way will they let this fly. We can at least hold up or temper any statements made to the public." He stopped dead, and turned back to his detectives. "Oh, no. Ross's kids. What if Kendrick makes some wild statement to the media? We can't let the kidsl hear something like that without any warning."

"No, we can't. You two go, go see Nancy and the kids. I'll catch a ride with one of the patrol units when we finish up here."

Eames started to protest, and Goren cut her off crisply. "We need Powell at Headquarters. There's no one else. You really want to send some stranger from public affairs to tell his family about this? Or worse, hear some half-baked news bulletin?"

"Of course not, but…"

"I'll the careful," Goren said, his hand still outstretched. "Go. Powell agrees with me."

After a quick glance, Eames realized there was no point in arguing. She and Powell hurried to their cars to go on their separate ways.

* * *

"I don't believe it. No fucking way." Wheeler's eyes widened at her partner's use of profanity. She couldn't hear the other side of the phone conversation, but clearly he wasn't happy. "What do you want us to do? Right. Got it."

"What happened?" Wheeler asked.

Mike Logan swallowed hard. "They found the car the Captain was using last night. It's at Overlook Park, and his overcoat is on the rocks leading out to the ocean. Some fool tried to say he jumped."

"Danny Ross a suicide. What a bunch of crap," Wheeler said angrily. "Based on what?"

"Based on nothing, because it's impossible. Powell's convinced it was staged. Goren's checking the car."

"Good. He'll find something." Wheeler exchanged a knowing look with her partner. Goren's talents were no secret to an insider. "What do we do?"

"Keep looking, and at least for awhile longer, we're not getting any help. We need to find something, anything." Mike kicked at the ground in frustration. "We've been down here for hours in the dark and found zip. If the Captain was patrolling down here, how did that damn car end up on the other side of town? I can't see him driving up there. Did somebody swipe the car? Force him to drive up there? The whole thing doesn't make sense."

"Look, Ross is no pushover. He had to have been out of the car. Even then, how does it go down?" Wheeler asked. "The car gets swiped, he calls in. Does he get mugged?"

"No one heard shots."

"Correction, partner, no one reported shots or a disturbance. Maybe the good citizens of New York weren't feeling particularly civic-minded last night."

"Good point, Mike conceded. "Even with a weapon, out here on the sidewalks is a lousy place for an ambush."

"Then he was lured into a house, or an overgrown yard, maybe one of the alleys. Come on, man. We've got things to do."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Fischer slipped behind the computer at yet another coffee shop. After only a few hours of sleep, the espresso he ordered was essential. He sipped as he accessed his email. He loved New York City, the anonymity it afforded him with its countless internet cafes. He could use a different location every day and go on for years before needing to repeat. For all the bluster of the Americans and their Homeland Security, this was so pathetically easy. Multiple email accounts, messages within messages. They spent millions for their war on terror, and yet he was able to operate with complete freedom and internet access for the price of a cup of coffee.

First, he checked on the status of his drivers. Yes! All of the deliveries had arrived safely. His part of the operation was the last step in an elaborate chain: arms and explosives had been purchased from sympathetic parties in the Balkans and then smuggled overland into Germany, to be hidden in legitimate shipments bound, first to Canada and then into his own warehouses.

He smiled, deeply satisfied. Yes, there had been some problems, some information had leaked. The authorities had received a 'credible threat' that seemed to have nothing to do with their operation, but it had made things more difficult. New supplies and personnel had required additional precautions and precious time. It was almost amusing to see the authorities with their silly yellow and orange alerts, scuttling around the city, around the harbor, searching in all the wrong places.

Now the operation could go forward. Even better, his own operation, his plans could begin forward. Finally, he would be able to show the world what he was capable of, what his brothers were unable to visualize.

He was loyal to the jihad. His skills and connections were highly valued. He knew there were some in the movement that merely thought of him as a supplier of goods and services, perhaps too European. Despite his own frustrations, he had carefully kept his own plans in reserve, deferring to others, subservient to the cause.

Too European - how ironic. His beautiful Iranian mother had left her heritage, her religion, and doubtlessly her honor behind when she married his father, a wealthy German banker. That was long ago, under the reign of the last Shah. Her family had fled their homes with their Swiss bank accounts and little else. If they objected to his mother's behavior, they were too overwhelmed to restrain her.

And his father? When he had tired of his lovely Iranian beauty, he discarded her in favor of another, younger Aryan. As the only son, Armand was considered a separate issue, clay to be educated, polished, molded into the perfect heir for the Fischer position and fortune. After his mother's banishment back to her disgraced family, he hated the father who kept the young boy isolated from his mother and who demanded so much from him.

What a blessed day it had been when he had discovered his true faith. Following the counsel of others who were far wiser, rather than reject his upbringing, he nurtured it, used it as the perfect cover. His fingers paused on the keyboard, considering what his next move should be. His responsibilities to the cause were complete. The window could now open on his own plans.

Caution was important. He had lived cautiously since his own personal awakening. Now that things were in motion, he should kill the police officer, and dispose of him quietly. That was the practical, safe thing to do.

So why had he awakened this morning with other ideas? The police officer could be the hand of destiny, a great opportunity. If he allowed his mind the freedom to see, if he were willing to take the calculated risk, there might be other alternatives. He must talk with Ibrahim immediately, he needed his trusted ally to help him see the possibilities.

* * *

Eames didn't get to the doorbell. Jeremy bolted out the front door the minute her foot touched the front porch. "Where's my dad?"

"Let's go back inside, Jeremy," Eames said, trying to steer him back into the house.

"No. Tell me straight." Jeremy's voice broke. "Tell me right here, right now." His young face looked haggard and tired. The poor kid must have paced all night after realizing his dad hadn't come home.

Still Eames hesitated, but there was no sense in delaying it. The message she came to deliver wasn't going to change. "We found the car. Your dad wasn't there. That's all we know for sure. Let's go inside." She moved toward the front door, hoping the boy would follow her.

Jeremy promptly stepped in and blocked her path. "What's the rest of it? Where was the car? Was there blood? Signs of a struggle? I'm… I'm not afraid of the truth, just of not knowing…"

Damn, what else could she expect? Jeremy had grown up surrounded by police work, and learned the art of questioning from a parent who was very, very good at it. If Alex was under any delusion that she was going to be able to break this slowly and gently wasn't looking good. "The car… was found in Overlook Park. His coat was out lying out on the rocks, near the water. That's all I know, all we know now. Just his coat. Nothing else."

Jeremy's lip trembled. "My dad isn't dead. He's not."

"Who said anything about dead? Of course he's not dead," Eames said gently, taking Jeremy's arm. "Listen to me. We'll find him. I just need to make sure you're okay while we figure this out. Let me take you over to your mom's."

"No. My mom and brother are out of town." Jeremy stood there, breathing heavily. "I'm not a little kid who needs social services. Take me up there, or I'll go by myself."

"Jeremy, it's an official investigation. You're a civilian. You know you can't."

Jeremy snorted. "Give me a break. When did being a civilian ever stop anyone? Try a better one, Eames. Do I get in the car, or do I have to call a cab? I can always start walking."

"Jeremy, don't give me a hard time. Until we know what's really going on here, you could be in danger, too. You can't just take off and start looking for your dad." Eames sighed. Jeremy was his father's son. "Get your coat first, and bring your cell, but you're not going to Overlook. I'll take you down to 1PP with me. You can call your mom and brother from there, and we'll get the latest from Goren and Powell."

Jeremy headed into the house, still talking. "Don't you even think of ditching me, or locking me up somewhere. I'm fifteen and I've got rights, you know." A moment later, he locked the door to the house and marched down the front walk, still full of himself. Eames knew it was just a show of bravado before the storm. She still hadn't told him the hardest part yet. She wished she could have coaxed Jeremy inside.

"Hold up a minute, before we go." She was hurrying to catch the young man, and nearly ran into Jeremy when he stopped and turned back abruptly. Eames looked up into the young man's face. Jeremy was no longer the slightly chubby youngster Eames had first seen the day he helped Captain Ross move into his office. "Look, I promise to treat you straight if you do the same. There's more… you need to understand. The way things look, there might be several different theories floating around, some that can't be true, just conjecture, you know? Don't take it seriously."

Jeremy frowned, trying to understand. "Well, sure, no problem. Dad's always talking about how the media gets stuff messed up. Besides, what could they say?"

Eames swallowed. She could see the wheels turning, Jeremy considering and answering his own question. "What? Are they saying he did something wrong? He's missing, not guilty."

"That's not what I meant…"

"No." Jeremy took a step back, his face shifting from obstinacy to panic. "If that's not it, what is it, then? What?"

"Jeremy, just don't take everything you might hear as gospel. That's all I'm saying."

"No. No, you're not telling me. What? The rocks? What are they saying?" There was a pained silence; Eames couldn't bring herself to say the words. "That he fell… or he jumped?" Jeremy whispered harshly. Eames stood quietly as the voice rose in anger and the words tumbled out. It wasn't until the tears came that she wrapped her arms around Jeremy, riding the waves of that storm.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

He must have dozed off. He felt steadier and stronger, but his head still hurt like hell. Unfortunately, his captors didn't seem inclined to supply an aspirin or an icepack.

They'd left his hands cuffed in front. That at least was an improvement. This whole thing made no sense. Why was he here? Were they keeping him for ransom? If that was the case, it was a damn spontaneous kidnapping, a crime of opportunity, since it was pure coincidence that he'd been on the street last night.

Okay, he had pushed his luck, poking around in a couple of alleyways, but he'd been hoping to catch the guys ripping off old ladies. What had he stumbled into in that backyard? Nothing had looked overtly criminal, just suspicious. He had seen four, five people loading up a couple of cars in a downpour on a dark night. If they were trying to cover their tracks; why not kill him outright instead of keep him prisoner?

Not that he intended to hang around long enough for these guys to change their minds. He knew he needed medical attention, he needed to escape.

What did he know? He was in a room with a hardwood floor. He could feel the edges of the boards. From the way the sound carried, the room was small and closed up tight. He'd heard a bolt slide after they'd pushed him in here. How long ago?

He pulled the blindfold away, leaving it to slide down to his neck so he could see. He was alone in the unfinished room. The scuffed floor was stained from years of use. There was a thin blanket next to him, and a chipped mug filled with water. There was no obvious signs of a camera or peephole, and he couldn't hear any movement that would indicate anyone in the next room.

Faded wallpaper hung in ragged strips. There was one small, square window. Heavy nails were pounded through the wooden panes into the casement to keep it from opening. The windows were covered on the outside with some kind of sheeting, but dappled light came through the cracks. He could hear trees rustling. Faintly, he could hear footsteps below him. So, maybe two stories, an older home, maybe he was being held in the attic.

He hurt everywhere. It was only a few feet to the window, and yet it took an eternity of agonizing effort to slide across the floor. Ross leaned against the wall, woozy with pain. Any thoughts of bashing through the glass would have to wait. He clearly wasn't up to escaping out a secured window, jumping from the window or scurrying over the roof. Damn, he couldn't even stand.

He started to creep toward the door, and after a few feet, lowered his head to the floor. He'd rest, just for a moment, just until it stopped hurting.

The darkness returned.

* * *

Goren took a quick visual scan of the evidence collected from the exterior of the car, then shooed the technicians away to work on the coat. Just preventing someone from slipping into the surf from that slick rock would keep them occupied.

He looked at the tires first. The tread showed traces of black goo that didn't smell like oil or tar. Goren flicked open his knife and pried little bit of it out, rubbing it between his gloved fingers. It didn't have the gritty texture of soil or mud. A sniff told him it was some kind of rotting vegetation, but he couldn't identify the source. Forensics would have to deal with that.

The car was unlocked. Goren closed his eyes for a moment, trying to wipe away all the anxiety and distractions that would interfere with his concentration. Slowly, Goren opened the driver's side door, concentrating first on smell.

There. A fragrance, not sweet enough for a woman's perfume. A man's scent, probably an aftershave, not the brand Ross wore. At least there was a possibility that someone else had been in the car. Slipping on a new pair of disposable gloves, Goren picked up an empty Starbucks cup and sniffed it. He recognized it as Ross's typical order. No doubt the prints would be Ross's. There were no other food wrappers or trash in the car.

He was about to examine the seats when he rocked back on his heels and grinned. He was certain now that Ross hadn't been the one to drive the Camry to this spot. The seat was positioned for a man taller man than Captain Ross was. Bobby swung into the seat, and found the position comfortable for him. Goren was several inches taller than the captain and there was no way a man of Danny Ross's height had driven the car with the seat in this position. They were looking for a taller man. Or one with long legs. Although he wasn't ruling out a very tall woman, but the aftershave seemed to indicate otherwise.

Goren stood up, backed away and called for one of the technicians. They could take some photos and finish with the rest of the car. He had the one piece of information that he really needed. Danny Ross hadn't come up here on his own, and he felt it was quite possible the man hadn't been here at all.

* * *

Eames brought Jeremy down to 1PP. Jeremy had calmed down, but the young man was shaken and emotional. The bullpen was almost empty when they entered. Goren and Powell were visible through the windows of Ross's office, absorbed in conversation. Jeremy rushed by, flinging the door open as he went. "Where's my dad?" he yelled. "Why aren't you guys doing something?"

Powell came around the desk and wrapped Jeremy in a hug. "I'm glad you're here," "It's going to be okay."

Greeted by a face he'd known since childhood, Jeremy's composure broke. After a few ragged sobs, he pushed away. "Sorry. I know it's not your fault. I'm sorry. Please tell me what's going on."

"Sit down, now," Powell said gently, pulling Jeremy toward one of the chairs. He sat next to him. Eames closed the door and stayed there, almost as full of questions as Jeremy was. Goren leaned against the desk, watching quietly.

"Your dad didn't come in from patrol last night. He called he was coming in, and that was the last we heard from him," Powell said. "We found the car he was using and his coat, but that's all."

"Detective Eames already told me that," Jeremy said. "What was he doing? Dad doesn't go out on patrol, he hasn't since I little."

"He was covering for Eames and I to give us a couple hours break." Goren shifted uncomfortably, knowing that Powell was deliberately keeping them out of it. "I'm sure you know how shorthanded we are. Half the force is running around for Homeland Security."

Jeremy nodded. "All dad ever talks about is how screwed up the schedule is and how beat everyone is. It really ticks him off. The message he left just said he was working late and to order a pizza. He said he'd be home before midnight." Jeremy swallowed hard, almost losing his composure again. "He's been working a lot lately."

Powell nodded in agreement. "Well, then you understand why he was out there. There was no indication of any trouble. We just don't know where he is, or what happened."

"He didn't kill himself, and he didn't do anything wrong, or.. or make a mistake," Jeremy said angrily. "I want to pound whoever said it."

"I'm sorry you had to hear about that," Powell said. "It was idle talk. We wanted Eames to tell you, so you'd be prepared. We didn't want you to hear something silly like that without warning."

"You don't believe it, do you?" Jeremy asked, the question somewhere between a question and a challenge.

"Of course we don't. Nobody who knows your dad believes it either. You don't need to worry about it." Powell paused. He grasped Jeremy's arm, willing him to believe him. Jeremy gave a small nod.

"Good. We're going to figure this out and we're going to find your dad, but that means we have work to do. We need to take you somewhere safe, Jeremy, just in case." He cast a quick glance at Eames. "Actually, I'm surprised that you're here. We kind of thought you would go to your mom's."

Jeremy looked down, a stubborn frown on his face. "Mom's on a business trip until the end of the week, and I'm staying with Dad, it's not that I'm some baby who needs a keeper."

Looking up in defiance, jaw set, he firmly added, "I want to go to the crime scene."

"Well, that's out of the question, and you know it." Jeremy refused to make eye contact, and Powell finally nudged his foot with his own. "You look at me, young man. If you're not a child, then don't act like one."

Jeremy sighed as only a disgruntled teenage could. "Okaaay, all ready. But you can't expect me to toddle off somewhere and just disappear. That is just not going to happen."

"Then we'll compromise with something appropriate, but I need your word that you won't take off and do something stupid."

"And I suppose Overlook Park would qualify as something stupid?" Jeremy said bitterly.

Powell crossed his arms and glared sternly at Jeremy. "Right now, your dad would be saying something along the lines of, 'Don't backtalk me, young man.' Want to hear it out of my mouth, too?" Jeremy shook his head. "Overlook would definitely qualify as stupid. We've blocked off the parking lot and the scene, but there is plenty of folk lurking around. You don't want to get messed up in that. Besides, forensics is bringing the car in and all the other evidence to the lab. There's nothing to see."

The ringing of the phone interrupted them. "Sergeant Powell, Chief Moran called," Rhonda said. "He's on his way from the airport and wants to see you in his office as soon as he gets here, in about ten minutes."

"Thank you, Rhonda," Powell said. "I've got to go, so we need to do this fast. How about going to stay with your grandparents?"

"I'm not going there either, unless you want to arrest me, and you can't. I haven't done anything wrong." Jeremy folded his arms and sat back in his chair. "What's it going to be?"

Powell stood up and looked at Jeremy with complete impatience. "We don't have time for this argument. For now, you can stay here, but don't test me, young man. If you even stick a foot outside this office without an escort, I will throw you in a holding cell. Your dad won't even bat an eyelash when he finds out. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Jeremy… " Powell said reproachfully.

Jeremy held up both hands. "I heard you. I get it. Okay, okay. I promise. I'll stay here and be a good little boy."

"See that you do, son. I'll come down on you like the wrath of God. I'm off to see Moran and the mayor."

Goren motioned his head toward the door. "Jeremy, Eames and I need a minute. We'll go get you something to eat and be right back." They slipped out of the office, shutting the door behind them. "That ought to last about ten minutes," Goren said softly.

"Can you blame him?" Eames asked sharply.

"No, but that's not the point." They retreated to Goren's desk. For a moment, they watched Jeremy wander around their captain's office. "How's he doing?" Goren asked.

"You saw," Eames said. "He's old enough to know how he should react and young enough not to. He'll do his best. How are we doing for evidence?"

"Not much. For what it's worth, I'm certain Ross didn't drive that car up there. The seat was set all wrong. He would barely have been able to reach the gas or brake pedals. There was a scent in the car, aftershave, that wasn't the captain's."

"Anything we can use?" Eames asked.

"Too generic, I'm afraid. The car was wiped down on the door handles and the interior."

"Does it look professional?"

Goren shook his head. "I doubt it, it's a pretty simple mistake to forget to move the seat back to the right position and leave it in the wrong place. This whole thing just doesn't make sense."

"Maybe we're tired and we're missing something."

"Ya think? Four hours of sleep in the last thirty-six shouldn't be a problem," Goren snapped. Eames's eyes flashed. "Sorry. I'm tired, and I know that's no excuse. I'm sorry. Culver made me promise I wouldn't come down to forensics –". He checked his watch quickly. "For another forty-three minutes. Correction, forty-two minutes. How about some coffee?"

Fifteen minutes later, Goren was wolfing down a scrambled egg sandwich, bacon and extra hash browns. Eames had chosen fruit and an English muffin, the only menu item she considered moderately healthy. Jeremy was toying with a stack of pancakes.

"Do you think my dad was even up there? At Overlook, I mean," he asked."

Goren took a swallow of juice. "We should wait for the evidence, but my sense is that he wasn't." He checked his watch. "Ten more minutes. Eat your food while you have the chance."

Jeremy started on a bite and then put his fork down. "Wouldn't someone see him? He must be somewhere, hurt or something? We should be looking for him, not sitting here eating."

Goren grabbed his arm as he started to get up. "Don't you think it might be a good idea to have some idea where to start? Logan and Wheeler are already down in the neighborhood. Powell isn't going to rest until he gets some action from the higher ups. Sometimes acting without a plan is counterproductive. Now like I said, a good soldier never misses a chance to eat or sleep." He noticed Eames's raised eyebrow, and remembered her cue. "Besides, if you're going to help us, we need you sharp."

Jeremy said nothing for a moment, and then started to shovel in pancakes at record speed.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Chief Moran drummed his fingers on the table and shook his head. His captains could advise, but this was his decision. He might as well go ahead and make it. "I think we're all in agreement that this couldn't have happened at a worse time. The evidence may be fragmentary, but I don't buy an accident, and I definitely don't buy a suicide. It's unimaginable that Danny Ross would do such a thing. I also agree the coat was staged to point us in that direction. The fact that there was some attempt to mislead tells me to start looking, either for a hostage, an injured man, or, God forbid, a body. We're committing every available resource to the search." Everyone in the room shifted. "I say that knowing we HAVE no available resources. Powell, who's on this?"

"Right now, I have one team, Logan and Wheeler canvassing the neighborhood of the last report," Powell said. "Goren and Eames should be in forensics right about now. There didn't look like much to go on, so I can't hold out a lot of hope."

"We can't invent what isn't there," Moran sighed. "Powell, I want you to concentrate on the evidence collection and the case itself. Everyone else, I want Powell to have access to one team from every department, and I mean every department, on every shift, from now until we find Danny Ross. Before anyone says a word, I know how thin everyone is, and every damn one of you thinks he's got special circumstances I don't know about. I don't want to hear it. Don't even think about sending your second stringers over and hoping I won't notice. Do whatever it takes; overtime, cancel vacations, whatever. Bring meals in. Set up cots. You've got thirty minutes to come back here with duty rosters. Dismissed. Powell, stay."

The other captains filed out of the room, talking amongst themselves, until only Powell and Moran remained in the room. "You've asked the impossible, sir," Powell said quietly. "Ross was out there because there's no one left. Can't we get some of our own people back? Declare a police emergency?"

"My next stop is the mayor. I'll do my damn best, which is all I can ask of them. Supposedly, they had new leads on a 'credible threat' in the next twenty-four hours."

"We don't have a threat, we have a reality," Powell said grimly.

"Good point. We need to find something to get this going, something I can give the mayor. We need a lead. If not, you'll need to be searching likely dump sites. I hate to say that, but it is true."

"Understood, sir. Thirty minutes." Powell didn't bother with his cell phone or stopping by Major Crimes. He headed directly to Forensics.

* * *

Jennifer Culver looked up from her microscope, to the clock, and then scowled at her visitors. "Damn you, Goren. I told you an hour. Go away."

"It's been an hour. At least on my watch, anyway."

She rolled her eyes as Goren strode in anyway. Eames, trailing behind, peeked around the broad shoulders and mouthed, "Sorry." Culver gave her a tiny smile in return. She had actually expected them sooner. It was a running joke between the two of them at Goren's expense. Her eyes clouded with concern as the last member of the trio filed into the lab.

Eames was quick to notice her unspoken thoughts. "You know Jeremy, don't you Jennifer? He's - uh – staying with Major Case."

"Right," she said, after a moment of hesitation. Managing family members during an investigation was always a little tricky. She looked toward Goren, hoping for some kind of a cue. Goren gave her a slight nod. He and Eames hadn't had quite enough time to work out the details. They were walking a fine line between following correct procedure and keeping Jeremy engaged enough to forestall outright rebellion.

"We haven't pulled any prints that were useful. We haven't had any hits on any of the data bases, but it's early."

"Partials?" Goren asked.

"Lots. If you get a suspect, we can probably confirm they were in the car. Our chances of giving you a suspect isn't so good."

"There's got to be something, Culver."

"We swept that area of the parking lot area near the coat, and the rocks themselves. Those rocks were very treacherous." She paused as she pulled up the sleeve of her lab coat and showed off her newly acquired six inch scrap running the length of her forearm. "We came up with some change and a receipt that seems to match the coffee cup in the car. It was time stamped at about 6:30 last night. It's speculation, but I'd guess it came out of the pocket of his coat. I'm not sure what that means, if anything."

"Nothing else?" Eames asked.

Culver shook her head sadly. "I know you need something quickly, but I can't give it to you. There is residue on the car we're still working on. It's sticky, like the car was parked under a tree, tree sap." She gestured helplessly with her hands. "There's an outside chance we can find something to work with. There is some dark black gummy substance ground into the tire treads."

"I noticed that," Goren said. "It wasn't oil."

Culver raised an eyebrow, before replying, "No, it wasn't. It seems to be vegetation of some kind. It's a long shot, but we're trying to put a name to it. We're grasping at straws. I'm afraid that's it so far."

"What about the coat?" Goren asked, surprised Culver hadn't discussed that crucial piece of evidence already.

"We're still analyzing samples, but there weren't many fibers on what we recovered." She fiddled with her notes for a moment. "Maybe I should just summarize my findings and email them to you."

"Culver, we need..." Goren stopped in mid-sentence when Eames's thumb dug under his last rib. His partner's face was a study in neutrality, but the thumb kept digging. Culver was studying the floor tiles with sudden interest.

"Maybe Jeremy could identify the coat," Eames suggested.

"It's right over here," Culver said, sounding a little more confident. "Does this look like your Dad's, Jeremy?" She gestured toward one of her work areas. "The pockets were empty."

Jeremy looked closely. "It's big enough. It looks like the one he uses for work most days." He swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. "Did it have a label or anything? Dad gets most of his suits and stuff from that men's store, the one downtown. They put some kind of special label in it."

"Kaufman's," Goren said. "Good thinking, Jeremy. It does have a Kaufman's label. Maybe you guys can follow up on that." The silence that followed was palpable.

Culver was avoiding something, and not very skillfully. Besides that, Eames was firmly tromping on his instep. Finally it dawned on Goren. Culver wouldn't hold out on them. She just didn't want to say it in front of Jeremy.

"You guys knock it off!"

Jeremy's angry voice snapped Goren out of his reverie. He'd been so intent on the evidence, he'd been a half second too slow. Jeremy was facing off with Eames. "You gave me your word! You promised me you'd be straight with me. Those were your exact words!"

"Jeremy, you're here, aren't you?" Eames said. "This is a lead we can follow up…"

Jeremy wasn't buying it. "Bullshit. You don't care where dad buys his clothes." He glared at Culver. "What's on the coat you don't want to tell me?"

Culver gave Goren a stricken look, but said nothing.

"What's on the coat?" Jeremy shouted.

"That's enough," Goren said, forcing himself between Culver and Jeremy.

"WHAT'S ON IT?"

Toe to toe with Detective Goren was not a position most people sought out. Defying the usual odds, Jeremy closed the gap between them even more, even as the detective towered over him. The decibel level went down, but his voice quivered with rage.

"What. Is. On. The. Coat? Tell me or I'm out of here, and you're not going to stop me."

"There were blood stains on the coat," Culver said quietly. "Just don't get upset before you let me finish. It's nothing like a bullet or a knife wound." She turned the coat over gently.

"There's no blood on there," Jeremy said.

"You can't see it. The residue is very faint. Let me show you. Turn around, Goren." Gesturing across his back, she continued to explain. "There were just spatters, along the collar particularly. It's hard to tell because of all the rain. There was another smear along the left sleeve, near the wrist." She demonstrated. "This is very hypothetical, but if someone were struck on the head, they might reach back behind their head, like this."

Jeremy bit his lip and said nothing.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Jeremy? That means he was moving after he was struck. It's not a bullet hole or a stab wound."

"Okay. Okay." Jeremy put both hands in front of him, steadying himself on the lab counter. He was breathing in irregular pants, clearly shaken. He looked up at Goren.

"I can't do this, can I? It's too much." He was fighting back tears again. "Powell tried to tell me."

"That's why you're not supposed to work on an investigation that you're too close to," Goren said quietly. "If you were the one missing, your dad might be helping, but he wouldn't be the lead investigator. It would be hard, but he'd step back and understand why."

Jeremy nodded. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Maybe Detective Eames can go back up to my dad's office with me while you talk to Culver. Would that be okay?"

Goren squeezed his shoulder firmly. "I think that's a great idea. I'll be up in a minute." He waited as Eames herded the shell-shocked young man from the room.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Painfully, Ross rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, rubbed at his cheek. Fine grit from the floor rasped at his cheek. _Damn, how long had he been out?_ He gingerly balanced on one elbow and sat up, pulling one knee up to balance himself. _Whoa, no cuffs. When had that happened?_ He must have been out of it for awhile.

He scanned the empty room again. Two bottles of water, an apple and three packaged granola bars were lying on a paper towel by the door. He crawled toward the door, opened and downed three gulps of water, followed by half of a bar.

He was ready to cram in the rest of the bar, and caught himself. They hadn't killed him yet, and apparently, didn't think him capable of mounting much resistance. Best they continue to believe that. He took another swallow of water, and carefully placed the bottle on its side, letting the water drain out. He ate another bite of the bar, but crumbled the rest of it and added it into the mess. Let them think he couldn't even feed himself.

He pressed an ear against the door. The only sounds he could distinguish were muffled men's voices. No one seemed close, at least one floor below or several rooms down a hallway. As long as he paid attention, he could do a little staging before anyone opened the door and looked in.

He checked the door thoroughly. It was an old door, but he imagined it was bolted somehow on the outside. It seemed solid, but if he hit it with a lot of momentum, something might give way. The window looked the same way. Brute force might get him out, but everyone nearby would know something was up.

He worked his way carefully around the room. Somewhere in this barren room, there had to be something he could use to his advantage.

* * *

Sergeant Powell looked pensively through the doorway of the situation room. Jeremy hadn't noticed him yet; his head down, slumped over crossed arms on the tabletop. The makeshift command center consisted of two laptops, two officers and several maps. The citywide street maps lined the walls, tracking the course of the search for Danny Ross. They had Jeremy assisting one of the officers in the center: marking search sectors, tracking duty rosters, cross-referencing information. The boy was smart. He caught on to the big picture, and the work kept him engaged.

The first six hours had been upbeat. The knowledge that the department had finally thrown resources into the fray produced a flush of optimism. Now, as the hours ground on, reality was setting in. They were generating precious few leads. A new shift of personnel was due to rotate in, and Powell was at a loss to deploy them in any rational way. He dreaded explaining to Jeremy that it was time for him to go home.

He slipped into a chair next to the young man. Jeremy sat up, his face blank, but Powell could see the trace of tears across his cheeks. "They can't find him, can they?" Jeremy said quietly.

Powell gently massaged the teen's neck and shoulders. "We haven't given up. You know that. We'll keep going house to house. There will be different people home in the evening. Something will break."

Jeremy's only answer was a nod. "You're exhausted, Jeremy. You waited up all night. You need to call it a day. You know we'll keep in touch. Did you call your mom?"

"Yeah. I told her not to come home, that she couldn't do anything anyway." A tear streaked down his cheek. "I – I think I just want to go home. I don't need a babysitter."

"No, but you're the family of a missing person. We'd encourage anyone not to be alone."

"I know that, and I also know you guys have broken all kinds of rules letting me stay down here. I'm too tired to think anymore, and I know you need to kick me out."

"Jeremy…you know we're not doing anything of the kind. I've sent Goren and Eames home, too, and they don't like it one bit either. I just can't let emotions outweigh common sense. You're at the end of your rope."

Jeremy wiped at his cheek. "What a wimp, sitting in here bawling like a baby."

"Your dad will be proud of how you've conducted yourself today, son. Showing some emotion isn't something to be ashamed of. He'd be the first one to tell you that."

Jeremy sniffed. "I know you're right, and besides, if I pitch a fit, you can't concentrate on finding my dad." He fiddled with some papers in front of him. "I know you're worried about me, but please just let me go home. I can warm up some soup or order a pizza. I promise I won't do anything stupid."

Powell studied Jeremy's expression. Danny Ross had often joked that Jeremy could lay down a diversion with the best, but he wasn't given to out and out lying. The kid had been on his best behavior since he'd arrived at the station. Maybe a little trust was appropriate.

"I have to go meet with Moran right now, and it might take awhile. I want you to go crash in your dad's office for a few minutes, and I'll get one of the patrols to run you home. I want you to call my cell when you get there. Are we clear on that?"

"Clear. I'll just straighten up some of this stuff before I go."

Powell stood up and gave Jeremy's shoulder one last squeeze. "Don't be afraid to call me if you need anything. If something breaks, I'll keep you posted."

Jeremy gave a half-hearted smile and gave him a wave as he left. He neatly organized notes and papers for nearly a minute before he sank into the nearest chair. "He can't be dead," he whispered. "He can't be dead." He rubbed angrily at one cheek, willing away the tears that were so close. Powell was like family, but none of his dad's detectives were going to see him cry. Resolutely, he marched into the bullpen to wait for his ride.

* * *

Fischer's hands shook in anticipation rather than fear, as he fumbled with the last lock. He kept the keys, although Ibrahim had been here many times in his stead. Together they had assembled the equipment, tested it, perfected it. Still, he needed to see it one last time, to be sure.

He'd never mounted a direct attack on his own. Moving supplies and personnel for others was routine, practically child's play. This was far more daring. Not 9-11, to be sure, but if this worked as he envisioned, it could be adapted and repeated in other cities, other countries with minimal investment. He, Armand Fischer, would be responsible for launching a new phase of the jihad. There had been buses in London, trains in Spain, and The Towers, and this would be the first of the next wave of attacks on American soil. His brothers would finally see what he had tried desperately to explain to them for years now.

Success would not be found in fools like Joseph! No, the way of the future was to recruit America's own to further the cause. They needed angry young men, individuals not restricted by ignorance of language and custom. Ibrahim was a perfect example. French-born, French-educated, he'd overcome every obstacle to gain a University education in engineering, only to have his native land refuse to accept him. In rejection and bitterness, he had turned to jihad. Imagine the fear and paranoia they could sow in the United States if attacks came from those raised in their own neighborhoods, rather than those hailing from the deserts of North Africa or West Asia. With a little encouragement, the Americans would tear themselves apart.

His hands were damp inside the heavy leather gloves, another precaution he made sure they always took. He studied the first item, the backpack. He lifted the false panel, admiring the charges, which Ibrahim had carefully prepared. The man was a genius in his own right. They had five of these completed, the targets selected, everything in place. He smiled at his own private joke. Death would come to the city hidden within pink Barbie backpacks. How fitting.

He had not shared his plans in advance. If he had done so, he would have been overruled. Only Ibrahim shared his vision. Here in a warehouse, even his superiors didn't know existed, his confidence and certainty returned. He was being too timid, too careful, too concerned about detection. Even though his other men had stayed in Philadelphia, he would make use of Joseph. The foolish young man longed for martyrdom, and his wish would soon be granted. Such a shame he wouldn't be able to share that information with Joseph thought. The rest of his plan could be handled by Ibrahim and himself.

And their prisoner? The man was too weak to be a problem, which gave him new options. He and Ibrahim had talked for hours, considering the fate of the police captain. If they put their plans in motion, this police officer could be used for ultimate shock value. After years of living a double life, hadn't he learned to turn obstacles into opportunities? Fortune favored the bold. Satisfied that all was ready and his mind at ease, Fisher locked the warehouse carefully and slipped away.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The light changed from yellow to red and Eames slammed on the brakes. 'Damn Sunday drivers. Get a move on, you idiots!'

'Eames, dial it back a little. You've been snarling ever since Powell kicked us out of the squad room. You're starting to get on my nerves."

"_I'm_ starting to get on _your_ nerves?" She turned to glare at her partner. "You do not want to go down that road tonight, detective." she snapped.

"You're the one driving, we can go down whatever road you want to go. As long as you realize that what's going on here now, has nothing to do with why you're still pissed at me." He shook his head and turned to stare at his reflection in the window."

"And I'm the one with the attitude?" Traffic started to move. "Finally," Eames spat out, punching down on the gas pedal, staying right on the bumper of the car in front of them.

"Why not drive right over the guy? Back off the guy, Eames. Back off or pull over and I'll drive."

"Bobby, get off my case!" She yelled. She glanced sideways fast enough to see Goren draw in a breath and hold it, staring straight ahead. "Oh, crap. I didn't mean that. It's just…"

"It's just Ross. I know that. You know that."

Eames pulled abruptly to the curb. "What are we doing going home? We didn't find a damn thing, not a trace. No witnesses, no suspicious activity. It's like he fell off the face of the earth. We should still be out there. Looking for him."

The seconds ticked away in silence. "What do you want to do, Alex? If you want to hit the street again, I'm there."

Alex lowered her head until it rested on the steering wheel. "I don't need a mirror to know how bad we look. We could fall over critical evidence and not even notice it."

She finally turned her head enough to look at her partner. "Okay, no more ranting. We go home, get some sleep. It just makes me feel like shit, like I'm betraying him."

"We're not giving up, Alex. We're regrouping."

"I want to believe that." Eames drove the rest of the route in silence. As they rode the elevator to the third floor, Goren felt fatigue nearly overwhelm him. The door to his apartment seemed miles away. Goren's apartment was closer to 1PP than Eames's house, so they'd agreed she would crash in his spare room rather than drive all the way out to her place for only a couple of hours.

"You want the first shower?" Goren asked, hanging his coat on the hooks and tossing his keys into the basket.

"I'd have to be awake." Eames continued her slow shuffle toward the extra bedroom room. "Forget food. Forget hygiene. I'm sleeping."

Goren followed her progress with sound; the soft crush of linens on the bed, one shoe hitting the floor, then the second, finally a solid thwap as Eames hit the pillow.

Goren sighed. He couldn't stand to hit the bed with the smell of his day – correction – days still on him, no matter how tired he was. He pulled out clean boxers and a t-shirt. Back in the bathroom, he turned the shower to hot and stood motionless, the spray pounding down on the top of his head. He rubbed a little shampoo into his hair, gave it a quick scrub and called it good.

He toweled off quickly and pulled on his boxers. As he walked down the hall, he could see that Eames was asleep, but restless. At least she'd dropped off quickly. Neither one of them would be worth much without some rest to clear their thoughts. He briefly considered taking the time for a beer, before dismissing it.

He stretched out on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He willed himself not to dwell on the frustration of the search, or his fears for Ross. Rest, he told himself. He needed rest to continue the search.

* * *

Chief of D's Moran leaned his arms on his desk. The inner office was empty except for the two of them. "We don't have anything, do we, Powell?"

"No, sir. Goren's convinced Ross wasn't in the car. Someone's trying to throw us off, but we don't know why."

"You still getting the manpower you need?" Moran asked.

"Everyone from forensics to patrol is busting their butts. I'm running out of ideas on how to use them. I finally sent Eames, Goren, Wheeler and Logan home to get a couple of hours sleep."

"I'll bet that wasn't pretty."

"I thought all four of them were going to take turns taking a swing at me. I can't say I blame them."

"They needed to come in. They know it, even though they don't want to admit it. You did the right thing. Everyone needs a break. Even you Steve."

"I snagged a couple of hours of sleep upstairs. I'm good. I'm… I'm not out there."

Moran shrugged. "I have to admit, it didn't look promising from the beginning. It's unfair, but I was hoping Goren and Eames would pull out a miracle. You've talked to the family, I assume."

Powell nodded. "His ex, his parents. Jeremy was here most of the day."

"Jeremy Ross." Moran shook his head. "I can remember the day Jeremy was born, Danny handing out cigars, grinning from ear to ear. How old is he now?"

"Fifteen, a sophomore in high school. He's taking it hard, but holding it together. It may have been the wrong decision, but he wanted to go home. I sent him in a patrol car. I took him at his word that he'd stay put."

"Tough call. Tell dispatch to send a car by in a few hours and check on him."

"I already have that set up. Do you have any suggestions, sir? An angle that I'm missing, that we missed?" He gestured helplessly. "It's Danny – we just can't…"

The outer office suddenly burst into an uproar. "Dammit, now what?" Moran exclaimed, heading for the door. Powell following right behind him. In the outer office, the two men joined the crowd clustered around the television kept for watching tape, now tuned to CNN.

"…this breaking story. The city of Philadelphia has been ripped by a series of explosions …"


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Armand and Ibrahim sat quietly, watching the images flicker across the screen. Armand would have opened champagne to celebrate, but as an observant Muslim he knew Ibrahim wouldn't appreciate the gesture.

"When will the announcement come?" Ibrahim asked.

Armand checked his watch. "Another hour, maybe two. Every major network will be running the video claiming responsibility." He smiled. "So much for their yellow, orange and red alerts. It is a grand victory for our people, my friend."

"And what of your own plans? You visited our warehouse. Have you decided when we implement your plan?" Ibrahim asked, hoping it would be soon.

The two men looked steadily at each other, savoring the feeling of victory. "We have seen the results in Europe, in your own homeland. How long did the fires burn in France? We need angry young men," Armand said. "We need many, many angry young men, strong and intelligent young men who have been forgotten by their own countries. Fighters like Joseph are worthless, well intentioned, but worthless."

Ibrahim rolled his eyes in a very American gesture. "No one in their right mind could believe Joseph had the his ability to blend in. Even with his Americanized name, he might as well wear a sign around his neck."

"This is the element our brothers do not understand, so we must show them. We must create a climate that provokes our still peaceful American brothers to fight for us, for jihad. We shall fan the spark of resentment into a flame. We shall provide the spark and the encouragement. Yes, let us begin."

"And the police captain?"

"Ideally, videotape him confessing to crimes against the Muslims here in New York. In his weakened condition, we can hope he may cooperate. I suspect though, that he may not."

Ibrahim raised an eyebrow. "He does not strike me as a coward, but he has a son, you say? That could prove a valuable incentive to win his cooperation, my friend. Perhaps, I should visit the man's home and bring the boy here. What wouldn't such a man do for his son?"

"As you say," Fischer nodded his agreement. "Be careful."

"Always. Either way, we will make our tape. Then…"

"Then, we kill him. How do you feel about beheadings?" They both laughed.

* * *

Goren jerked and opened his eyes wide. Sirens were wailing, from all over the city from the sound of it. He bolted out of bed and down the short hallway. "Eames! Wake up! Something's happening."

Eames nearly smacked the door jamb coming out of her room. "What?"

"Call in, something's happened. I can hear sirens for miles." Goren brushed some discarded newspapers to the floor, searching for the remote. He fumbled for a local channel, listening to Eames making the call in the background.

"Goren!" He looked quickly over his shoulder.

Eames's eyes were wide. "CNN. Go to CNN. Yeah, we'll be there." Still carrying the phone, he stood beside Goren, watching the images in horror. "Oh, God," he whispered. "They were right, but wrong. It wasn't New York, but Philadelphia this time. We're on alert." She stared at Goren, whose eyes hadn't left the screen. "Goren, we need to get ready. We need to go."

"Right." Goren ran back to his room and tore into his dresser, searching for something to wear. No one was going to say anything about dress code today. Abruptly, he stopped, hanging on to the furniture to stay upright. Whatever else happened today, the search for Captain Danny Ross, was effectively over.

* * *

Jeremy Ross huddled down into the cushions of the couch, horrified by what he was watching, yet unable to turn away. Smoke boiled across the screen. Shells of vehicles littered the road. Police officers, firemen, and ordinary citizens were carrying the wounded away. Men like his father, answering the call. So many people must be hurt or dead.

He felt the tears coming, and didn't care. Sob after sob shook his body. He grabbed a pillow, rocking back and forth. "Dad, where are you?" he wailed. "Why aren't you here? Where are you?"

The phone was ringing and he ignored it, trapped in his own personal agony.

* * *

The station was in chaos. Steve Powell met them at the door, out of uniform but definitely on duty. Goren recognized the fat white binder spread in front of the older man. They'd jokingly named it "the disaster book". Every city agency, in fact, every office, was supposed to have a copy. They were usually on shelves gathering dust, but not today.

Steve was clearly directing traffic, consulting the plan when necessary. "Where?" Goren asked brusquely.

"Major Case, what team are you?" Powell muttered, flipping pages.

"Team four."

"Four. Four. Okay, got it. He handed the two detectives bright orange badges. You're in command, sector A-1. For now, Hudson Memorial is your main responsibility. They're assembling emergency medical teams to bus out to Philadelphia. Do what you can to expedite their departure."

"Anything else?"

"Officially, other than emergency personnel, civilians are supposed to go home and stay there. We have check points going up, that's not your problem, but be aware of it. Extra gear and supplies are being handed out in the garage. Stop by there before you leave. Anything could happen before you have a chance to come back in."

"Any other news?" Goren asked.

"Ask CNN. I'm too busy to know, but so far no strikes outside of Philadelphia. The governor's calling up the National Guard and sending them in, at least the ones that aren't already in Iraq. Crap, half a world away when we need them right here at home." He waved Goren aside, speaking to the next in line.

* * *

It wasn't much better in the garage, but things seemed to be moving. Every available vehicle was hitting the street to provide extra security. Eames headed for the gas pumps. Who knew when they'd get another chance to fill up? She glanced at her partner, surrounded by other officers waiting their turn for gear. There didn't seem to be much chatter among the group, unusual for a bunch of cops.

She was just finishing when Goren trooped over with an armload of supplies. "We need to make another trip. This is mostly water, rations and medical stuff."

Eames followed Goren back to get more supplies. "Right there, Detective," a voice called out. "That box to your left."

Goren checked quickly. Flares, ammunition, radios and two rifles caught his eye. Body armor was at the bottom. "Anybody need a ride?" he called out. "We're headed to Hudson Memorial; there's room for three in the back. We'll leave in five." A couple hands went up, and those moved to the head of the line.

Goren hoisted the box, dreading the night that lay ahead.

* * *

Jennifer Culver checked her equipment one last time. She and three other forensics technicians were heading for Philadelphia. Her personal bag sat by the door, a few outfits grabbed on the run and her toothbrush. She knew what awaited her – days of trying to make identifications of the dead. It would be gruesome work, and she dreaded it. It was easier to think about how important it was for the families to get closure, to say goodbye.

What about their own family, here in Cascade? Danny Ross was still missing. Culver gathered the copies of all the new information they'd gathered. No way was she leaving this to one of her junior staff. This was going straight up to Captain Powell, from her hand to his. It was the least she could do.

"Ms. Culver, are you ready to go?"

Culver looked up at the young cop standing in the doorway. "I need these two boxes taken down. Can you handle them?"

"Sure thing. Aren't you coming?"

"Tell me where you're parked and I'll meet you. I need to deliver some information to Sergeant Powell before I leave."

The young officer nodded. "The van is are parked on the west side of the building. Please hurry, most everyone else is already down there."

Culver nodded, and slung her duffle over her shoulder. No matter what they did tonight, it would be too little and too late.

* * *

Chief of Detectives Moran looked out over the packed room, waiting for the briefing to start. He hated to admit it, but his wife had been right. He should have taken retirement in July. He'd hoped this would never happen on his watch. Shoving that thought aside, he stepped to the microphone.

"I want to thank you for getting down here so quickly, everyone. I know you're all tired, and I want to get you back out to your duties as soon as possible."

"Here's what we know so far. At approximately four-thirty this evening, six explosions rocked Philadelphia. The targets included The Constitution Center, The Declaration House, the Federal Reserve Bank, the Philadelphia Mint, Liberty Bell Center, Congress Hall, They all appear to have been car bombs. I'm sure all of you have heard by now that a branch of al-Qaida has claimed responsibility. It's been six hours, and so far, there have been no further attacks. The Feds are running the investigation, but I don't have any additional information. The Guard's been called out, and they're trying to shut down all non-essential traffic.

"Luckily most of the historic sites had finished their tours for the day, or the casualty count would be much higher, but they appear to be heavier at the Bank and Mint sites. We have conflicting information about the status of power and water in the city. It's quite possible that by morning, we'll be involved in evacuating the city, or at a minimum, getting emergency supplies in. Until we hear more, we'll hold the positions we have now. Questions?"

"What about a curfew?"

Moran threw a quick glance at the mayor. "Not at this time." He kept his face blank while a murmur of dissatisfaction rippled through the room. He'd gone to the mat, arguing for a curfew for at least the nighttime hours. Now wasn't the time or place to air their disagreements in public, even if the mayor was a jackass and in total denial. What could you expect from a man who surrounded himself with twits who knew more about prepping for a TV interview than public safety?

"We'll be issuing a statement asking businesses to observe a voluntary closure for tomorrow at least. Schools will probably be closed, although that may change. For now, all personnel manning the checkpoints should try to discourage travel if at all possible." He took a deep breath. "If we do have an incident, obviously the ground rules will change immediately. For right now, we need to keep a high profile, be vigilant and try to keep everyone calm. The Emergency Management folks need to brief us, so I'm turning it over to them."

Moran returned to his seat. He couldn't look at Powell. Both of them knew the search for Danny Ross was over.

* * *

"You will read the statement."

"No." Ross had a few more choice comments to add, but none of the words made it out of his mouth. Talking took too much energy.

The man knelt to look him in the eye. "This is our third conversation. Do you think it will stop? How much pain do you wish, my friend?"

"You're not my friend," Ross growled. "and I'm not yours."

His captor smiled. "I will return in one hour. We will discuss this again, using your other hand. Perhaps you will be in a more conversational mood. Just a few words, and then it will be over."

Ross couldn't stop the flinch. They had started breaking fingers the second time. His left hand was now mangled and useless. "An hour won't make any difference, you bastard."

"Such bravado. How very American." The man moved towards the door and gave one last look over his shoulder. "My associate will be joining us then. As we speak, he is paying a visit to your home. No doubt, your son will find comfort in his visit. Perhaps reuniting with your son will change your attitude."

Ross lunged and fell far short as the door slammed and locked. Not Jeremy. Anything but his son.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Jeremy slumped on the couch. It was nearly midnight, and he was tired, but knew he wouldn't sleep. He had dozed a little between phone calls. It seemed like all he'd done was talk, talk, talk. His mom and brother had called and the three of them had talked for over an hour. Powell had called twice, his grandparents. Even Eames, who was back out on duty, had called. For some reason, that call was the hardest.

The television still flickered. He had the sound turned low, unable to turn it off. Why hadn't they been able to stop it? He thought of his dad, sitting at the table every weekend, fighting with his duty schedule, never having enough people to go around. It had all been for nothing.

Jeremy angrily tossed the remote on the couch cushions. This afternoon he'd only wanted to come home. Now he couldn't stand to be here. He went to the kitchen, peered out the window, before checking his watch. Even with everything that was going on, the PD was sending a car by every hour. They'd be by in a few minutes.

Jeremy grabbed his coat and locked up the house. He'd flag them down and talk them into taking him to the station. If they wouldn't take him, he'd damn well walk and they couldn't stop him.

* * *

"Hey, Eames, you want to wake up?" Goren waved a cup of fresh brewed coffee near her.

Eames opened her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost six. It's still dark outside. Another shift's coming in. We can go."

Eames rubbed her forehead. "My neck aches."

"Might have something to do with sleeping like a pretzel in a hospital waiting room. I felt the same way when you came to get me."

"Okay, I'm conscious. Where to?"

"Downtown. The whole place may be nuts, but I haven't given up on Ross. I want to talk with Powell."

"Let's roll."

* * *

Jeremy rolled onto his side and rubbed his eyes. The couch in his dad's office wasn't very comfortable, but it was better than being at home, alone in an empty house. At least here, he had a sense that his dad could walk through the door any second. He ran his hands over the leather of the couch. He remembered coming here with his dad when he'd first been promoted to Major Case. The thought brought tears to his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was lose it.

He checked his watch and sighed. Even though he had slept for a few hours, he didn't feel rested. He pushed aside the coat he'd used as a blanket, sat up and stretched. Sergeant Powell hadn't been too pleased to see him last night, but at least he hadn't kicked him out. They'd talked the last time around two. Jeremy opened the blinds and looked out into the bullpen. Everybody in the place looked the same way, worn out and worried.

Avoiding everyone he could, he slipped out and went to the restroom, taking extra time to scrub the sleep from his face. The reflection in the mirror seemed like someone he didn't know. His eyes were puffy and red rimmed, he was wearing yesterday's clothes and he needed a shower. His dad wouldn't be pleased to see him so scruffy. Jeremy could remember plenty of times when he'd been sent back to his room for a more appropriate outfit.

He ran into Rhonda on the way back. She teared up when she saw him, which had Jeremy doing the same. He covered by gruffly asking if she needed help with the boxes of food she was carrying. He let her explain the obvious without comment. Detectives would be coming back to the station and they'd need to eat. He promised to start some fresh coffee while she went back to her car for the rest of the food. It was a relief to be left alone again.

He wandered back to his dad's office, nibbling on a blueberry muffin. It tasted like sand, but he realized he was hungry. He'd never gotten around to ordering anything last night. He sank into the chair behind his dad's desk, feeling very alone and abandoned. If only his dad would walk through the door. Then everything would be okay.

He fiddled with the familiar objects on the desk and noticed the folder. The sticky note attached was from Culver. She was on her way to Philadelphia, but left the forensics report for Powell. Jeremy hesitated, and then opened the cover. He might not understand all of it, but he didn't have to understand the science to understand the conclusions.

* * *

Armand Fischer closed the door gently and flipped the lock. Their last session with Ross had not gone well. At least the man wouldn't be giving them any problems for a few hours. He motioned Ibrahim to follow. "Where is the boy?" he asked.

Ibrahim shook his head. "The house was empty."

"A disappointment," Fischer remarked with a sigh. He was tired and restless. "Without the boy, I do not think our good captain will indulge us. It would have been as the Americans put it, the icing on the cake. It's time for us to move ahead."

Ibrahim nodded solemnly. "And our other plans? Shall I remain?"

Fischer shook his head. "No. Our guest will give us no problems. Send for Joseph, since we intend to use him. You have been to the mosque?"

"Yes." Ibrahim's eyes flashed in anger. "Instead of rejoicing, they condemn. The fools and the cowards." He shook his head in disgust.

"Be calm, my friend. Our time will come, and sooner than they could possibly imagine. That is why our mission is so important and it must be implemented now." Fischer said, placing his hand on the other man's elbow. "This is why we must show them the way, goad them to the righteous anger they should already feel. When we are finished, they will be brothers in the struggle instead of apologists. Are there special gatherings being planned?"

"Yes." Ibrahim dug a paper from his pocket. "I made a list."

"Excellent." Fischer scanned the list. "We will begin with the mosque this afternoon, but I predict the school will be especially productive. How can a true Muslim man fail to avenge his child or wife?"

"How indeed?" answered Ibrahim with a smile.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Jeremy flipped through each page of the forensics report a second time. Swiftly thumbing past the incomprehensible science jargon, he stopped when he got to the summary. There were no fingerprints found that couldn't be eliminated. There was no other blood evidence other than the trace amounts found on the coat. There were no notes, no further contact. There was just a whole lot of nothing. The black residue from the tire treads had been identified as decaying leaves. Now there was a big surprise. Finding decaying leaves in the fall - even a metropolitan area like Manhattan - there were still plenty of trees shedding their leaves.

He sighed. Fifth grade science, the trip to the arboretum. Walking all over, looking at every kind of tree there was, getting bored and wrestling with his friends, getting in trouble. They'd had a test by walking around the school and identifying trees. European beech, willow oak, crab apple, American ash, American sycamore, sweet gum and crack willows. Several of them were only in very specific areas of the city. The crab apple trees were mostly up in Riverside Park.

He turned on his dad's computer and peeked under the base of the phone for the password. Okay, so his dad wasn't a computer genius. Unless games counted, neither was he. His hands were shaking as he went to the keyboard. Pictures, he needed pictures. He went to the City website, the city arborist, the arboretum, banging on the keyboard in frustration when he hit a dead end or the net was slow.

"Hey, Jeremy. You're here." Alex said as she walked into the captain's office

Jeremy nearly jumped out of his skin. "You scared me!"

"Sorry. Didn't mean to." A very tired Eames sank into a chair, explaining. "Bobby went straight over to grab us some food. Did you get some?"

"I ate a muffin. It wasn't very good. It was nice of Rhonda to bring them though. She's really upset."

"We're all upset. Have you seen Sergeant Powell?"

"Not since last night. He said he'd be back. Where were you?"

"Defending the hospital. I guess that's what we were doing. Mostly we were putting medical teams on busses and sending them to Philadelphia." They sat for few moments, staring at each other, running out of conversation. Goren spotted them through the window and came in.

"Here, Eames, we've got food. I grabbed you a little of everything,. Hey, Jeremy, help yourself to anything you want. You spend the night?"

"Yeah, the house got too quiet." Jeremy admitted as Bobby doled out the food and they ate in silence for a few minutes. "Um look, I've got a question for you. What do you know about walnut trees?"

Eames looked at him owlishly. "Walnut trees? Excuse me, Jeremy, but why do you care about walnut trees? Today, of all days?"

"Well… I … look, don't get mad. Culver left the forensics report for Powell and I was reading it." Sheepishly, Jeremy handed it across the desk. "She said the slimy stuff in the tires was _decaying black walnut leaves_."

"Yeah, so?" Goren said absently as he read.

"Well, according to the internet, there aren't that many of them around. They're big and messy and not used for landscaping much anymore. So I was thinking…"

Goren was already out of his chair. "Let me see that," he said, standing behind Jeremy to look at the computer.

* * *

"That's it, right over there, 851 West 43rd. Pull over." Jeremy shouted as they passed the address.

Alex shifted into reverse. Jeremy had absolutely refused to be left behind and as the two detectives got out of the car, he joined them to stand together on the sidewalk, staring up at the tree that towered over them.

Bobby checked his notes. "It's over eighty-feet tall, which I suppose is why it's a Heritage Tree. What are we, about five blocks from Mrs. What's-her-name's house?"

"About that, but this can't be the tree we need," Alex said. "It's not close enough to the street."

Bobby crossed the street and walked along the edge of the sidewalk. "Look at the gutter along here. See how there are still some leaves all mashed up in the gutter?"

"Slow down," Alex admonished. "What makes you think this muck is from a walnut tree."

Jeremy had joined them and gave her a withering look. "Duh. Maybe the pieces of hulls and shells."

Goren did a double take at the way Jeremy addressed his partner, and slowly stood up. Alex slightly shook her head as she got his attention, indicating to let it go. Eames suppressed a shudder as Jeremy's tone and words reminded her of just who his father was.

"What do you think, Eames?" Goren asked.

"We can check around," Jeremy pleaded. "We have those pictures from the guy at the arboretum guy. He said that walnut trees are mostly in older neighborhoods. We know what to look for. Wide branches, black bark – we can do this."

"Of course we will, as in Eames and I," Goren said pointedly. "You on the other hand, are staying in the car."

"But –"

Goren crowded Jeremy, looking him eye to eye. "In. The. Car. Right now."

Eames patted Jeremy sympathetically on the shoulder. "You may as well give it up, man. I used to hear it all the time. Why don't you mark the map with the locations that look promising? There's another Heritage Tree, a big one, about three blocks over. Keep track for us."

Jeremy's rebellious expression said everything. Eames started to reason him, but Goren sighed, reached for his cuffs and snicked them around Jeremy's wrist while he was concentrating on Eames.

"Don't even!" Jeremy started as Goren unceremoniously dragged him toward the car. Jeremy started to tug in the opposite direction, and Goren quickly bent the young man's arm behind his back and frog-marched him to the driver's side. He calmly snapped the other cuff around the steering wheel.

Jeremy was sputtering in anger. Goren stepped back and waved him off. "I recommend you sit down and get comfortable."

"I can't believe you're doing this!" Jeremy shouted. "This is my idea! My lead!"

"It is, and it's a good one and all we've got to go on. Jeremy, you can holler all you want, but I'd rather cramp your style than have your dad cramp mine. You lose to your dad, hands down. Come on, Eames."

"You shit! Don't you leave me here!" Jeremy shouted furiously.

"He'll get over it," Goren said, trying to appear nonchalant as they walked away.

"Sure, Goren," Eames said smirking. "Whatever you say. I can't believe you did that."

"You have a better idea?" Goren snapped.

"It's not that I don't agree. I can just see his point. How do you want to do this?"

"What else can we do? Walk it first."

They circled the block, passing by the car with its fuming occupant. "If looks could kill," Eames said. "I'm going to hide when you let him go." They worked down the opposite sidewalk, then back through the alleys, talking with everyone they could find.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Joseph was nearly shaking with excitement. The commander had sent for him! Surely, he must be pleased with his performance. He looked out the window of the bus, imagining the heroic tasks that might lie ahead. Perhaps the commander would allow him to drive a car regularly, as Ibrahim did. He could be so much more useful if he wasn't always riding a bus, doing minor errands.

He checked his watch. The commander had told him to arrive at the house at one o'clock sharp, but he was much too excited to wait until then. Surely, arriving early would only be impressive, showing how eager he was to serve. All the lonely days he'd spent in this cold, miserable city, the hours of learning the profane tongue of these Americans, all that could be forgotten. Today, today he would be important. His parents, his brothers would honor his name.

The bus had barely pulled to a stop before he bolted off, eager to be on his way.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hopewell. You've been a big help." Eames sighed. _Thank God, for little old ladies who like to garden, but you sure couldn't rush them._ They still had two more locations they'd need to check out, but it would be easier to drive the few blocks. She motioned to Goren. Maybe it was time to call in a few other teams and start a serious house to house.

Goren started toward her, but turned away. Another neighbor, two doors down from Mrs. Hopewell, had come out onto her porch. Eames settled back. Bobby could handle this one. Down the street, Eames noticed a slight, dark-haired young man walking hurriedly in their direction. Feeling incredibly fatigued, she hung back, waiting for the newcomer to come nearer before approaching him.

Joseph noticed the woman dressed in jeans. He'd never seen her before, and she didn't seem very threatening, in fact, she looked much like the students at the community college he was supposed to be attending. Not that he'd been inside a classroom, despite what his student visa said. Besides, he had more important goals than classroom attendance.

He was nearly abreast of the woman when she started speaking to him. Joseph couldn't quite follow the words, other than several questions. Then Joseph froze. The woman was holding something out to him – a badge. This woman was an official of some kind. In his excitement, he hadn't been paying attention. How many times had the commander lectured them? He knew every word by heart: approach slowly, don't walk directly toward the house until the area was clear, don't call attention to yourself. How could he have been so stupid?

In total panic, Joseph turned and ran.

"Goren! Goren, we've got a runner!"

Goren wheeled at the sound of his partner's voice. Eames was in headlong pursuit. Goren had no idea why, but if the guy was running, that was reason enough to stop him and ask a few questions. The guy had a good lead. Eames wasn't slow, but with that distance, in this neighborhood, they could easily lose him. If Eames could at least keep him in sight, maybe he could get to the car and cut him off. In fact, the guy was running in the direction of the car.

The thought had barely formed when Jeremy came flying out of the truck, laying a tackle worthy of the NFL on their runner. The guy went down flat on his backand didn't move. Eames got there first, with Goren right behind.

"Did I kill him?" Jeremy shouted, trying to untangle himself.

Eames put a knee firmly in the man's back. "NYPD – stay down. It's okay, Jeremy, he just has the wind knocked out of him." Eames pulled their surprise guest to his feet and pushed him back towards the side of the car. The man was struggling for breath, his eyes wide in panic.

Goren held up his badge about two inches from the guy's nose. "NYPD. What's your name? What are you running from?"

Eames was patting him down. Apparently she'd felt something, because she was digging through the guy's coat pocket. Goren came up into the man's face and kept up the questioning. They weren't getting any answers.

"Oh, my God. That's my dad's."

It was Jeremy, staring at a leather object in Eames's hand. His dad's ID case, the case he'd given to him, had come out of this guy's pocket. Jeremy threw himself forward, swinging wildly. "You son of a bitch! Where's my dad? Where's my dad?"

"Jeremy, stop! Stop!" Bobby managed to get Jeremy in a hold and pulled him a few feet away.

"That's his ID case. I gave it to him." He lunged again, barely held in check, shouting and sobbing. "Let me have him. How'd you get it? Where is my dad?"

Still struggling Bobby handed Jeremy off to Eames. He took the few steps it took to reach their suspect – suspect of what, he was sure – and hauled the cringing man up by his collar with a shake.

"You're under arrest," Goren said crisply to their prisoner. He hauled the cringing man up by his collar with a shake. "I'm not feeling patient. Start talking."

They were going to kill him. He was sure of it.

* * *

Joseph lay against the door of the SUV trying to distance himself from the big man who had thrown him into the backseat of the vehicle and the young boy in the front seat who was waiting to pounce. Their conversation had been so confusing. Could this truly be the policeman's son? How could this be? Certainly, certainly, he was a dead man.

His stupidity was beyond comprehension. He vaguely remembered picking up the case from the parking lot. It had fallen on the ground when he'd thrown the coat, and he'd forgotten about it. Why hadn't he thrown it away? How could he been so stupid?

There were more men coming, big angry men. They were searching each house. It was only a matter of time. They would find the police captain. If they found him alive, would they release him? Surely, the commander had executed the infidel by now, and they would do the same to him.

He started to struggle and was pushed down. He could sense their anger, the hate radiating from his captors. He relaxed again, realizing the hopeless nature of his predicament. The son would avenge the father. He could understand that, as a matter of family honor.

Besides, if these men didn't kill him, the commander would.

"He's got to be close by."

"I agree." Powell looked at his meager team. Goren, Eames, and Mike Logan. More officers and detectives would be there as soon as they were realeased from other duties, but until then the five of them made up the entire search team. "I don't want to wait. House to house. Teams of two, and stay together, no exceptions. I don't want anyone alone."

"We'll knock on every door," Mike said grimly.

"If no one answers, knock the door down," Powell said emphatically. He ignored their shocked looks. "I want every house searched."

"Warrants?" Eames asked.

"For now, that ID case is my warrant," Powell said forcefully. "They can bust me down to patrolman, or fire my ass. Ross is here somewhere, I can feel it. Someone else can worry about legality."

"We're going to get killed in court," Mike muttered.

"So be it. I could care less at this point about building a case. I want him back. Alive."

They split up, Powell and Logan working together. They leapfrogged houses, working as quickly as they dared. If the house was empty, they searched. If someone was home, they apologized and searched anyway. They didn't get many sustained protests.

Eames could hardly keep pace with her partner. Goren was totally focused. On their third house, there was no answer. Goren kicked down the door, entered the house and stopped dead in the dingy hallway, reaching back for his sidearm.

"Goren? What?"

"Do you smell that, coppery, sweet and salty ... blood." Once you've smelled freshly spilt blood in quantity, you never forget it or mistake it for anything else.

Eames ran out into the yard and shouted for Powell and Logan. They came on the third call. "Goren has something." Eames ran back to follow Goren deeper into the building, confident that the other two men were right behind.

She found Bobby on the second floor, throwing kick after kick at an already battered door. This was an old home and the doors were solid wood. This one had a reinforced metal lock plate housing a brand new deadbolt. Someone really didn't want visitors in there. Finally, the jamb cracked slightly under Goren's furious assault. Mike, who had just arrived with Powell, threw all his weight at the door. On Goren's next kick, the bolted door exploded inward. Goren crashed through the debris into the room. A lone figure was sprawled on the floor.

"Captain!" Goren went to his knees, to help the captain to sit up.

"Logan, get an ambulance," Powell shouted. "Now!" He joined Goren at Ross's side.

Ross groaned. "Jeremy – did they get Jeremy? My boy…"

Goren helped him raise up slightly. "Easy, Captain, easy. Jeremy's outside, he's fine. He's been with us the whole time."

"Thank God," Ross breathed, leaning back into Goren's arms.

"Who did this, Danny?" Powell asked.

"Don't know." Ross grabbed at his old friend's shirt, trying to pull himself up. "Terrorists. Wanted a tape – wouldn't –"

"It's okay, Danny," Powell said gently. "It's over. We're here now. Just rest."

"Nooo!" Ross pulled frantically, weak as he was, barely getting the words out. "Bombs – today – they left to - they're attacking today. Find them!"

Sergeant Powell looked soberly at his friend, "There's already been an attack, Danny. In Philadelphia. Last night."

Sadly, Danny nodded his understanding, but continued frantically, "Another – today. Different agenda. Another – target, here in the city."

"Oh, dear God," Eames whispered. "I'll call it in."

Ross lay there, anguished, as if they still didn't understand. "Not here. Warehouse. They left to go there. Back – back pocket – gloves."

Carefully, Goren pulled a paper from Ross's pocket. He unfolded it carefully, reading aloud. "Try to escape – it's instructions." He looked at Ross, who was nodding. "Did the kidnappers put this up?"

Ross managed a nod. "Took it – prints – on the tape."

"Go, man!" Powell said. "I'll stay with Ross. Get us a lead, Goren. Not this time, not in our city. We need to get these bastards." Goren transferred Ross to Powell's hold and dashed for the door. He nearly collided with Jeremy, who rushed headlong past him.

"Dad!" He slid across the stained floor on his knees. Painfully, Ross wrapped one arm weakly around his son. Battered and aching, but for the first time since he'd been jumped in the alley, Danny Ross relaxed.


	16. Chapter 16

Epilogue

Ibrahim pressed himself against the car that shielded him. Even from this vantage point several blocks away, it was obvious. Vehicles of all kinds, marked and unmarked, were parked in the middle of the street. Their safe house was no longer safe. An ambulance stood waiting at the curb, and a stretcher was being carried from the house. The police captain had been rescued.

Joseph was being led away by police officers. Ibrahim cursed. Of course, it would have been Joseph. As Armand had always said, the boy was a worthless fool. What had he been doing here, anyway? He wasn't supposed to arrive until early afternoon. How had he single-handedly managed to bring all this down around their heads? Only Joseph could be so stupid. He deserved to die a painful death, his family cursed through all time.

The futility of the situation hit Ibrahim full force. They must salvage what they could. He turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction, abandoning his vehicle, ducking between the houses and over fences at the earliest opportunity. He stayed out of sight, trying to put distance between himself and the concentration of police.

How could they have come so far, only to have it collapse? As soon as he felt he'd gone a safe distance, he called on the cell phone they had reserved for absolute emergencies.

"What is wrong?"

"The police are at the house."

"Are you safe?"

"Yes. They have Joseph."

"I should have killed him with my own hands."

"He can tell them very little. He's never been to the warehouse. We could proceed."

"Guantanamo, my friend. Life in a chain link cage? No. We have lost the element of surprise. We can begin again, somewhere else."

"The ferry?"

"I will bring our alternate papers. We will be out of the country before the hunt is up. We will fight another day..."

* * *

"Here he is – the one and only!" Jeremy said, opening the door for his father. To the sound of applause, Danny Ross returned to his home for the first time in a week. Most of the detectives from Major Case were gathered, enjoying their first time off since being called on alert.

Ross settled into his favorite chair with a sigh. "Thanks, everyone. It's good to be home. Is that pizza I smell?" He held up his heavily bandaged hands, still healing from the painful sessions with his captors. "Now how am I supposed to eat?"

"Got it covered," Eames answered. "You get pizza hors d'oeuvres." Ross gave a shout of laughter when he saw the plate full of bite size pizza chunks, each stabbed with a fluffy ended toothpick.

"Come on, guys," Mike said, bringing more boxes of pizza and plates. "Time to eat. Tonight we celebrate."

"Hey," said Bobby between bites, "I want the full recap. We've all been too busy to get the whole story."

"What we think, or what we know?" Sergeant Powell interjected.

"Both."

Bobby sighed. "Not that the Feds are going to tell us anything. They're pretty sure the explosives for Philadelphia were stored in that house. They found trace residue in the basement. The captain just happened to walk into the scene as they were transferring the materials to the cars used to drive the devices to Philadelphia."

Alex continued, "We traced the rented house where the captain was held back to Armand Fischer, a German national, and a major importer here in the city. Prints from his office matched the note Ross pocketed and his passport application. By the time we figured it out, he was long gone. He's probably out of the country, setting up shop somewhere else. All of his bank accounts, U.S. and European, were cleaned out by the time the Homeland Security got onto them. We're talking millions."

"That's a scary thought," Wheeler said. "What about the kid? The one with the captain's ID case?"

Goren snorted. "Never got the chance to interrogate him. Disappeared into federal custody. Feds took him right out of our holding cell without as much as a conversation. Forget anything like paperwork." Ross threw him a warning look. "Oh, yeah. I forgot. We're not supposed to talk about that. Us lowly members of the NYPD being such potential security risks, and borderline incompetent. All I can say is, I hope he enjoys the visiting hours in Cuba."

"So all we know is that the guys with the brains evaporated?" Logan asked. "Damn."

"Fischer's not the one I'm worried about," said Powell. "I looked over the stuff we recovered from the warehouse and linked to Fischer. Those bombs were art – malevolent art. Whoever built that stuff – and I don't think it was Fischer – is a genius. If we don't catch them, we'll see his work again. They had sketches, detailed plans." Powell stopped for a moment, clearly troubled. "I don't understand these people. They were going to blow up a mosque, a Muslim school. People of their own faith."

"And then murder Ross after taping his so-called confession. Get everyone at each other's throats. Violence begets violence," Eames said softly. "Throw the spark and stand back to watch the flame. Turn the state of New York into the Palestinian territories."

An uneasy silence filled the room. Eames finally broke the silence, trying to lighten the mood. "Wait a minute. You," she said, pointing an accusing finger at Jeremy. "Goren cuffed you into the truck. How did you get out?"

The room went dead quiet. Jeremy had gone red faced with shame. Ross started to snicker, then roared with laughter. "That's a family joke. Jeremy learned how to pick a pair of cuffs when he was about nine." He flashed an amused grin at Goren. "Sorry, Goren. You've gotta be a little more careful when you cuff a cop's kid. He was probably out of them before you walked half a block."

Jeremy shrugged, still looking guilty. "Sorry. I've had a nail in my wallet for years."

"I must be getting old," Goren said, disgusted and laughing at the same time.

"Enough of this terrorist talk," Powell interrupted. "This is a celebration. I propose a toast," he said, raising his glass. "Here's to having everyone safe and sound."

As he raised his glass, Goren leaned close to Eames and whispered, "Safe? I wonder."

Eames nodded, but lifted her glass all the same. For tonight, only this moment mattered.


End file.
